


The Story of Hazel Knight; Book Seven - Until the Very End

by CaspyCasp



Series: The Story of Hazel Knight [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-06 16:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 44
Words: 282,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaspyCasp/pseuds/CaspyCasp
Summary: Lord Voldemort is now in power, and Hazel is doing everything she can to stop him, along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. But with danger at every turn, it's far from easy, and she's rapidly learning that nowhere is safe. With Fred and Hazel further apart than ever, she worries about what will become of him and of the relationship on which she has come to rely. It's not long before Hazel begins to wonder how she and those she cares about will be able to come out of the war in one piece, or if it's even possible. But what she does know is that she has to fight, and she will, until the very end.Part Seven of 'The Story of Hazel Knight'Titles:I Love Magic - Book OneMore Danger and More Mysteries - Book TwoCrushes are the Worst - Book ThreeEither Love is Blind, or Friendship Closes Its Eyes - Book FourOurs - Book FiveDistance Means Nothing - Book SixUntil the Very End - Book Seven





	1. The Hann Family

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, I would like to iterate that this is not my story. I did not write it, so I own nothing.  
> It is originally written on Quotev by bucky kentucky, and you can find her profile at https://www.quotev.com/writingmyowndeliverance
> 
> I own nothing. All things Harry Potter related belong to J.K. Rowling, and anything else belongs to bucky kentucky.
> 
> Thank you.

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter One: The Hann Family**

 

I look up at the comfortable Belfast home, not much smaller than number five Privet Drive. I know my aunt, uncle, and cousin are all inside, probably sitting in the sitting room. Aunt Daisy will be sitting on the sofa, on the edge of her seat, her hands folded in her lap, trying to soothe a pacing Uncle Gabriel. Uncle Gabriel will be ranting about all sorts of things: me, the state of the house, how the one in Little Whinging is so much nicer, me, the stupidity of the plan, the inconvenience of it all, me. When I arrive, he will not doubt waste a lot of time arguing with me all over again, just as he had done no less than six times back at Privet Drive, threatening not to comply, despite the fact that he's already come here with his family and everything of importance. Noting this, I mentally congratulate myself on setting this to happen several hours before I need to do anything else. Candy will be sitting on an armchair, close to her family but not too close, saying nothing to the words coming out of her parents' mouths.

Everything is in place. I've paid for the first three months of their rent, set up their passports, drivers' license, gotten both Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Daisy well-paying jobs that they'd probably find enjoyable, enrolled Candy in the best school in the area. I've carefully, painstakingly created new identities for all of them. A brand new life. One without me. I really don't see why Uncle Gabriel is complaining. Not only have I given them a fairy comfortable life, but it'll be like I never existed. A dream come true, really.

I let out a sigh, shoving my hands in my pockets and walking up the path to the door. Might as well get this over with. Upon reaching the door, I withdraw a key from my pocket, unlock the door and step inside.

"Madness, absolute madness! How can that bloody girl force us to pack up our lives and move from Surrey to bloody Ireland!"

"I didn't force you to do anything," I say irritably from the doorway, closing the door and moving into the sitting room. The scene is exactly as I predicted: Uncle Gabriel is pacing, Aunt Daisy is sitting on the sofa and attempting to soothe Uncle Gabriel, and Candy is sitting silently on an armchair. "I gave you an offer because I figured you wanted to live. If you're not scared of Death Eaters and what they can do with you, though, then you guys can pack up and go right back to Privet Drive."

They all whip around to look at me.

"How did you get in here?" Uncle Gabriel demands.

"Spare key," I reply, holding it up. "Don't worry, I'm not keeping it. It'll be Candy's from now on."

As though to prove my point, I toss it to her. She catches it, examines it for a moment, before shoving it in her pocket. I lean against the doorway, looking over at them with my arms crossed. It was odd, thinking about how much fear they once brought me. Now I can't bring myself to feel much of anything as I look at my aunt and uncle.

"Who are these so-called Death Eaters, anyway? You never properly explained," Uncle Gabriel says.

 _Yes, I did,_ I think.  _I explained it to you over and over and over. Just because you can't get it through your thick skull, or you just refuse to listen to me..._

"The Death Eaters are the followers of a Dark wizard called Lord Voldemort," is what I say, rather mechanically. "They, like their leader, believe that pure-blood wizards - that is to say, wizards who only have wizard's blood in their veins - are superior and that anyone else is below them. That includes wizards with Muggle - non-magical person - blood in them, or just Muggles - non-magical people - themselves. Pure-blood wizards who associate and fight for Muggles are considered to be just as bad. These people murder, destroy, fight, torture, you name it, in order to bring power, all in Voldemort's name.

"Voldemort," I continue, before the question can even come out of Uncle Gabriel's mouth, "is, like I said, a powerful Dark wizard. He was once in power a while back, but then he was defeated. He's back now, though, and we have to stop him. That's what I'm trying to do, along with Harry. That puts you in danger, though, if the Death Eaters find out about my connection to you lot. They'd torture you, kill you, take you hostage, in an attempt to get to me, and in extension, Harry. To avoid that, I've brought you here, to Belfast, where you'll live under the radar with entirely different identities. I've gotten you and Aunt Daisy, nice, well-paying jobs that I'm sure you'll enjoy, and Candy is already enrolled in the best school in the area, where she'll go come September. I've even bought a nice vacation home in the Caribbean that you go to whenever you can. I'm also wiping your memories, particularly your memories of me, and replacing them with new ones, so that on the off chance they do find you, you won't have anything to tell them. Any questions?"

"How long will we have to be like this?" Uncle Gabriel demands immediately.

"Until the war ends," I reply. "Until it's safe enough for you to go out under your read identity. When that happens, I'll find you lot and undo the memory charms that I've put on you, and you can go back to Privet Drive if you do choose."

"You've paid our rent, enrolled Candy in school, bought us a vacation home, you've bought all this stuff for us - " Uncle Gabriel begins.

"No need to thank me," I say sarcastically. "I don't think you realise how rare it is for people to be living in comfort and style while they're in hiding."

"Where did you get all the money for it?" Uncle Gabriel continues, as though I'd never spoken. "How are you getting all of this?"

"Oh, I'm rich," I say in an offhand tone. Normally, I wouldn't make such a point to brag about it, but I've kept the secret of my parent's money from them because I knew they'd take all my gold for themselves if they caught wind of it, and now I'd quite like to rub it in their faces. Besides, it's not like they ever had any problems with money.

"You're what now?" Uncle Gabriel says, as though he can't believe his ears.

"Rich, uncle, I'm rich," I say, louder, as though it's the volume of my voice that's causing problems with him. "My parents left nearly everything they owned to me in their will - which includes all of their money. I've got all your eight and mine and more in gold hidden in the depths of London. I know, I couldn't believe it either," I say, grinning wickedly at the look of disbelief on the faces of Aunt Daisy and Uncle Gabriel.

"And how long have you known about this?" Uncle Gabriel asks, his voice dangerously calm. Not too long ago, that voice would have scared me.

"Since I was eleven," I shrug.

"And you did not think to tell us?"

"Should I have?" I ask innocently.

Uncle Gabriel looks like he's at the exploding point. The veins pulsing at his forehead and neck serve as proof. I couldn't count the amount of times I've stared at those veins, tuning out what he was yelling about and wondering what would happen if they actually exploded. When I was younger, I always imagined a proper explosion, with the noises and the fires and the rubble and everything. Once I grew out of this, I had wondered why the hell I would ever think something so ridiculous and far-fetched, even as a child, but looking at those veins once again now, I think I can understand where my younger-self was coming from.

"Where will you be?"

To my surprise, this question comes from Candy. She partly seems like she wants to keep her father from exploding, though she does actually seem like she cares to know.

"Well, I'll be trying to stop Voldemort," I reply, turning to her. "But in the meanwhile, I'll be in hiding."

"In hiding? Why? Are you some sort of fugitive?" Uncle Gabriel says sharply, apparently momentarily forgetting the fact that I've been hiding countless amounts of gold from them for six years.

"No," I say, rolling my eyes slightly. "Not yet, anyway. I assume I will be soon enough. That's what I've been saying. My life will be in danger, and in extension, so will yours. This is all to protect you."

"Why would  _we_ be in danger? Why would they come after  _us_ , of all people?"

"Well, I suppose they've assumed that just because we're related, that we've got a close, happy relationship," I say coldly. "A wrong, stupid assumption, but I still don't want you to die because of it."

"What if you die?" Uncle Gabriel asks bluntly.

"Dad!" Candy bursts out indignantly.

"What? It's war she's talking about, isn't it?" Uncle Gabriel says.

"He's right," I say dully. "It's a fair question. If I so happen to die, I have employed several people that I trust with my life to come get you and restore your memories. At least one of them is bound to make it out alive, so  _you'll_ still be fine. Happy?"

Uncle Gabriel says nothing, only looking at me with narrowed eyes. Clearly, he isn't happy, but he can't think of anything to say to me, which is fine with me. I turn to Aunt Daisy, who hasn't said anything from the moment I've walked in.

"Do you have any questions?" I ask her. "Or just anything to say in general, since we're all getting it out there?"

Aunt Daisy is silent for a long time, before saying, "I've... I've heard about these wretched people. My sister would talk all about them. Never to me or our parents, no, but to her freaky little friends, I'd hear them. I've heard what the likes of them can do... if you mean to protect us from them, then I've no question or complaints."

Hearing his own wife's determination, apparently, sets something off in Uncle Gabriel. He straightens up, and his face hardens with determination.

"Well, you heard her," he says loudly. "Get on with it, girl!"

"I thought you'd never ask," I say sarcastically. "Line up. We'll just go down the line."

Aunt Daisy stands up, as does Candy. Aunt Daisy stands beside Uncle Gabriel, and Candy moves to stand beside her. I pull out my wand and move to stand in front of all three of them.

"When this is over, you will all be passed out in your bedrooms. You will wake up in two hours, assume that you all just stopped for a quick nap, and go back to your daily lives. Candy will enjoy the summer as any teenager would, and tomorrow, you two will go to work and it will be business as usual. Uncle Gabriel, your name will be Jacob Hann. Aunt Daisy, your name will be Olivia Hann. Candy, your name will be Ariana Hann. Everything will be perfectly ordinary, and it will be as if Hazel Knight does not exist, okay? And because it will be as though I never existed, I think it'll be harmless to tell you lot some things that I've been dying to tell you... I'll start with you, uncle."

I move to stand in front of Uncle Gabriel, my wand at my side.

"Just spit it out, then," she says grudgingly. "And make it quick."

"Don't worry, I will," I say pleasantly. "You know, uncle, I don't know if you know this, but I used to try really hard to please you. Do you remember? You probably don't. I try not to remember it myself. But I tried for years. Whenever you yelled at me for doing something, I'd do the opposite. Whenever you praised Candy for something, I'd try to mimic her. I tried so hard to be perfect for you, just to get your approval, but I never got it. Never. No matter what I did. You'd always find something to criticise, something to yell at me for, something to punish me for. And it'd break my heart, the fact that I was never good enough for you. Eventually, I just gave up and decided there was something wrong with me, that I was just born inadequate and incompetent. I still feel that way sometimes.

"But that's not it, is it? It never has been. You have me because I defy everything you've ever known. I'm a freak, I'm a witch, I should be impossible, but I'm not. In your mind, I shouldn't exist, but I do. And that's what you hate. That's why you're so cruel to me. Because I defy everything you know. But that's not my fault. I'm not wrong for existing. I haven't done anything. And you will not tear me down and stop me just because you can't to accept me for who I am. So, I'd like to thank you."

"Thank me for what?" Uncle Gabriel asks me through gritted teeth, his face purple.

"For teaching me that a narrow-minded person's hatred is not my problem. For helping me realise that me, my existence is valid, no matter anyone would like to say about it. Who knows if I'd have learned it without you."

"It was my please," he forced out, and I smile an empty sort of smile.

"Ready?" I ask, holding up my wand.

"Just do it."

I wave my wand, thinking,  _Stupefy!_ Uncle Gabriel collapses. Aunt Daisy lets out a gasp.

"What did you do to him?" she demands.

"I knocked him out," I say serenely. "Don't worry, he's not hurt. He'll wake up in two hours, like I said. Now let me wipe his memories."

I hold up my wand and say, " _Obliviate!_ "

Concentrating deeply, I take away all the memories of Gabriel Martin, making extra sure to get rid of all memories and thoughts of me. I'm not that hard to get rid of. He didn't think about me much. I was never someone he concerned himself over. Once I'm finished, I wave my wand again and fill his mind with fabricated thoughts and memories that belong to an imaginary man called Jacob Hann. After I'm done, I move to stand in front of Aunt Daisy.

"And now for you," I say calmly. "You, Aunt Daisy, once told me that the only reason you took me in was because that I'm my mother's daughter. Because you felt the need to make it up to her for all the times you treated her badly. Do you think treating me even worse than you treated her is making it up to her? Do you think this is making up for your mistakes? Do you think she'd forgive you after all this? Honestly, I don't know. I couldn't tell you. I didn't know her. You knew her better than me, so maybe it is. Maybe, if she's somehow watching this, she's thinking,  _Yeah, you have made it up to me_ and wondering why her daughter's being an idiot. That could be it. But I know that if my mother was half the person everyone tells me she was, then she wouldn't forgive you for the way you treated her own daughter. And you wanna know what else I know? I know that no matter what purpose you think you were serving by not throwing me out on the street, I know one thing for sure. I know that my mother is dead. She's gone, and I'm still here, and I don't forgive you." I shrug. "Just so you know."

"Just get this done with," Aunt Daisy says in a low, mutinous voice.

 _They're really never going to care,_ I think, as I smile pleasantly and say, "That's my Aunt Daisy."

With a wave of my wand, I stun her, too, making her collapse to the floor. I point my wand at her, say, " _Obliviate!_ " and begin wiping any memories and thoughts belonging to Daisy Martin. As with Uncle Gabriel, it's no difficult to get rid of any thoughts and memories of me. They never cared enough to think about me much. If I didn't know any better, I would think that they always knew this was going to happen.

Once I've replaced the thoughts and memories of Daisy Martin with those of Olivia Hann, I move to stand in front of Candy. I had planned to say something to Candy, too, something about how she had spent so long making my life miserable, but I was still glad we had made it up even after everything, but looking at her now, it all seems so pointless. It feels as though I don't need to tell her anything, because I can tell she already knows, just from looking at her. I don't even say goodbye to her, the way I was planning to, because I don't need to. It appears we've passed a threshold where suddenly, nothing needs to be said anymore. She just nods at me, and I nod back. I wave my wand, think  _Stupefy!_ and watch Candy fall to the floor. Once again, I wipe all memories and thoughts that belong to Candy Martin, and replace them with the thoughts and memories of Ariana Hann. It's harder to erase all the memories of me, and I suppose it is nice that she cared enough to think about me every now and then.

I levitate each of their bodies into their beds, then walk back downstairs into the sitting room. I quickly straighten out the room, making sure it's just as it was before I came along and that nothing is out of place. After all, the Hanns are a family that takes great pride in cleanliness and organisation and wouldn't like their own sitting room to be untidy. Once I'm finished, I looked around the sitting room, stuffing my hands in my pockets. In two hours, they will wake and continue on with their days as if nothing has happened. They will be blissfully unaware of the war raging on in the wizard world, even more so than they already were, and even more blissfully unaware of the danger their least favourite niece is throwing herself into.

I envy them. The simplicity of it all is something I want more than anything. Though, the part of me that feels jealously is largely overwhelmed by the part of me that pities them. They get simplicity, but they still don't get understanding. They don't know, they don't understand, and they never will... Candy comes close, but not quite close enough.

After making sure that everything is just as it should be, I walk over to the window and close the gap between the curtains, all the better to make sure that nobody sees me when I Disapparate. Luckily, I had passed my Apparition test with flying colours, something I'd been eager to brag about to Fred and George, who fancied taking bets about how badly I'd fail, something that I'd been very modest about with Ron, as he failed his test the first time around. Mr. Weasley had not lied to me, you do get used to Apparition soon enough, once you do it enough times. It certainly is a relief that I had passed, because I'm not sure how I would've gone to and from Ireland quickly if I hadn't.

I wonder vaguely how long it will be until I go back to this place. Months? Years? Longer? What if we never succeed and they live this life forever? Well, at least they'd be living comfortably...

I shake my head, as though to clear it of thoughts like that. I can't think like that. I need to get out of here. I turn on the spot, and one second I'm looking at the neat sitting room, and then all I see is darkness, and then I'm gone.


	2. Empty Chairs

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Two: Empty Chairs**

 

My feet plant themselves on solid ground in a dark, deserted alleyway not far from Privet Drive. I look around to make sure nobody had seen me, and once I see the coast is clear, I jog up the alleyway and turn the corner onto Magnolia Crescent, walking over to Privet Drive, intending to get my things and leave once and for all. Technically, I could've done it any time I wanted over the summer, but I've stuck around, spending most of my time at the Burrow, and the rest of it being spent at Privet Drive. Whenever people ask me why, I murmur that I'll do it later, causing them to give me odd looks. My real reasoning, however, is so silly that I'm almost embarrassed to tell anybody else. The truth is I want to say goodbye to the house, and I want to be alone for it. Except for maybe Midnight.

But definitely no Martins.

It really does make no sense, even to myself. It's not like I have good memories there. The only remotely good memories I have are with Harry or Fred and Mr. Weasley when they had come around briefly. There was no pleasantness in that house, but regardless, it was the last seventeen years of my life. I had grown up in that house, whether I liked it or not (and I definitely did not). I had to say goodbye.

"Excuse me, miss!" a child's voice calls from behind me. "Miss!"

I turn around to find a little girl with dark, curly hair staring up at me with wide eyes. I look around to make sure she's not talking to anybody else, then look back over at her, studying her. She looks oddly familiar. Certainly, I've seen her before, met her even, but where? When?

"Is something wrong?" I ask her gently, bending down to become eye-level with her.

"I've lost my mum," she explains. "I can't find her, and I need help getting back to her, and I know you're nice."

"Well, thank you," I say, smiling kindly at her. "But what makes you think I'm nice? You should've trust strangers so easy, you know."

"But you're not a stranger," she insists. "You helped me and my friend last summer from those bullies, don't you remember?"

And suddenly, I do. I remember just where I've met her. She and her other friend, the boy with the freckles all over his face, they had been bullied by Dudley and his friends, and I'd gone up and stopped them...

"I know you'll help me again, won't you?" the girl says, looking at me almost curiously.

"Yeah," I say, getting to my feet and holding out my hand for her to take. "Yeah, of course I will."

Beaming up at me, the girl takes my hand.

"You know, maybe we should just take you home," I suggest. "Your mum might already be there. Where d'you live?"

"Up Magnolia Crescent," the girl replies promptly. "It's the white house with the windows."

I think about how every house on Magnolia Crescent is a white house with windows, but I decide against pointing this out to this girl. She'll know her own house when she sees it, surely. Magnolia Crescent. Figure I'll have to go right back to where I started out.

"Come on, then, off we go," I say, and we start walking. I walk slowly, making sure she can keep up. "Hey, what's your name?"

"My name? It's Elia," she replies, and looking at her light brown skin, her long dark curls, I decide it suits her. "And your name is... Heidi, right?"

"Close," I say slowly, laughing. "Hazel."

"Hazel," she repeats. "That's a pretty name."

"Not as pretty as Elia, though, I reckon," I say, smiling at her.

She grins up at me at that, a toothy grin that shows two missing teeth. I'll always say losing your baby teeth is one of the worst parts of childhood, but looking at her missing ones makes me miss it. It reminds me of innocence, and I have to look away after a brief smile before I decide to get nostalgic.

"So, how'd you end up lost, anyway?" I ask her curiously.

"Well, me and my Mum were walking together, but then I saw my friend, and I told her I'd only be a moment and ran over to talk to her. My friend left but now I can't find my Mum, which is why I found you."

"Ah," I say, nodding once. "Well, we'll find her in no time, don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried anymore," Elia says. "I like you."

"I like you, too," I say with a smile.

"You're not as bad as everyone says you are," she continues matter-of-factly.

Children: just too bloody honest. I like it, though. I miss it.

"Thanks, I try," I laugh.

The conversation wanders to books. Elia admits she likes fairytales more than anything else, no matter how stupid her brothers and sisters think they are. When she talks about all sorts of magic she reads about, I smile slightly and hope she ends up being a witch. But then I hope she doesn't go to Hogwarts until long, long after this war is over... the idea of Elia immersing herself into this world of war and danger is enough to make me scream like a child.

"And I like all the magic and action the most, but the happily ever after and the princes are nice, too," she finishes as we return onto Magnolia Crescent. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Have I ever been in love?" I repeat, thrown by the question.

When she nods, I think about when Harry and I were seven and walking home from school together. I had been positively fuming, because our teacher had told me that no boy was ever going to want to marry me if I kept being so unpleasant. It had been in the morning, but my anger had not gone away all day, no matter what Harry tried to do to stop it.

"Honestly, what do I care about boys and what they have to say about me being unpleasant?" I demanded furiously. "That's none of their business if I'm unpleasant! In any case, I don't  _want_ to get married to some dumb boy, anyway. All boys are stupid except for you and Danny Miller, and it's not like I'm marrying either of you! If it really came down to it, I'd marry you, like, by default or something, like, as a friend, but I think we both know that's never going to happen, so who cares?"

"Nobody cares," Harry said, at that point just trying not to anger me further. "She's stupid for saying it."

"Yes, she is!" I had agreed dramatically. "Anyway," I had let out a deep sigh. "I don't want to go home, so... race you to the park?"

"You're on!" Harry grinned, and I counted one missing tooth, and we both took off running, laughing all the while.

In spite of the anger I felt at the time, it's a happy memory that brings a smile to my face. That Hazel certainly has never been in love, particularly not with any princes. But then I think about red hair, messy and flaming; freckles all over a face, just slightly more than his twin brother; a smile that feels like coming home, yet also like stepping into a whole new world, exciting and magical and new; laughter that could be like a song one second, gentle and soothing and welcoming, then like a child's the next, loud and happy and carefree; I think about secret meetings in the dead of night and I think about dark berries, mint, and a faint hint of sweets, and suddenly it feels as though it'd be wrong for me to tell Elia no.

So I give her the best possible response I can.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Elia repeats, looking confused. "How can you not know?"

"It is really confusing," I nod. "You'll be the first to know once I figure it out."

"Second," she corrects me. When I look over at her in confusion, she explains, as though it's obvious, "The person you've in love with should be the first."

I look away at that, over at the horizon, surprised by pleasantly so. That is not an answer I'd expect out of someone so young.

"You know, you really are awfully clever, Elia," I say, smiling.

"Thank you," she says politely. "My teachers say so, too, except for this one who always says that I should be cleverer, but I don't really know how I'm supposed to - "

"Elia!"

We both whip around to find a tall woman with long, reddish brown hair hurrying over to us. Well, hurrying over to Elia, really, since it's only her she has eyes for. Not that I blame this woman.

"Mummy!" Elia says, letting go of my hand and running as fast as her short legs could carry her to the woman, who, as I had assumed, is her mother.

"There you are, darling, I've been looking for you for ages!" Elia's mother says in relief, embracing her tightly. I feel awkward, out of place, as though I'm intruding on something I shouldn't be witnessing. I look down at the pavement, digging the heel of my boot into it absently. "Where were you, I was worried sick!"

"Well, when I couldn't find you, I found this lady - her name's Hazel - and she helped me," Elia explains, pulling away from her mother to point at me, smiling that childlike smile that makes me feel happy yet oddly empty. "She's really nice, too. She's the lady who helped me last year when those boys were bullying me, remember, I told you about it, didn't I? Well, she was here again and I found her and she said she'd take me home. We never got to our house, but that's okay, because I still found you!"

Elia's mother smiles gently at her, but when she looks over at me and walks up to me, her expression hardens. The sudden change in facial expression throws me off, but I try not to let it show. Now that I look at her, I see that Elia's mother really doesn't look much like her kid. The hair colour is different, and Elia's mother has longer, straighter hair and paler skin and harder eyes. I assume that Elia gets most of her looks from her father.

"What were you doing with my kid?" she demands in a low voice.

"Nothing she didn't tell you," I say. "She found me, she asked me for help, I said yes. Would you prefer it if I said no and left her all alone?"

"I don't want you near my daughter," she hisses. "I know exactly about what you and your little friend Potter do, and I don't want it near my daughter."

I stare at her for a long moment, at her hard, overly confident expression, and almost feel pity for this woman. She's so certain of herself, so certain she knows everything about me from what the others in Little Whinging whisper about me, but she doesn't know anything at all. Worst of all, she doesn't even know  _that_.

"I can assure you that I haven't corrupted your daughter," I say, respectfully as I can, but I can't keep the edge of sarcasm from my tone.

"I don't like your tone," she says.

"Honestly, you don't seem to like me at all," I point out. Growing up with the Martins has made me equipped to deal with a wide range of insults from a wide range of people. Elia's mother is included in that range of people. "Look, whatever you think I did to Elia, I promise I didn't do. I don't expect you to believe me, but you can ask her yourself."

Elia, who had been standing a few feet behind her mother, skips over to us and stands between us.

"What are you two talking about?" she asks curiously. "Are you thanking her, Mum?"

Elia's mother opens her mouth, probably about to say she was doing the exact opposite of thanking me, or spew out some random bullshit, but I decide to beat her to it.

"Yeah, she was thanking me for taking care of you while she found herself unable to," I say, smiling at Elia. "I was just telling her that she needn't thank me and that it was my pleasure when you came along."

Elia's mother is giving me a death glare, but I find that I'm indifferent to it. I'm indifferent to her, really. She does not know me. She doesn't know any better. I can't feel anything over her blind hatred of me when she just doesn't know better.

"Oh, okay," Elia says, because why should she believe anything else of us? She turns to her mother, tugging on her sleeve. "Can we go home now? I'm hungry!"

"Sure thing, love," Elia's mother smiles kindly. "Come on, Elia, let's go  _home_."

She gives me a pointed look when she says that. Elia makes nothing of it, but I do. Clearly Elia's mother has heard the rumours of me moving from place to place, school to school, staying at different houses over the summer. I have no home, and she's rubbing it in my face. Well played, really. It would've been even better played if I really cared at this point.

Elia holding her mother's hand, they start walking away. Elia looks back and waves at me enthusiastically, beaming. I smile and wave back at her. Elia's mother looks back at me and gives me yet another death glare. I respond by smiling even wider and waving back even more enthusiastically, but in my head, I'm telling her over and over, " _Take better care of your fucking kid._ "

They turn away and keep walking until they disappear from sight. Once they're gone, I turn away myself and start walking. I look around at the houses, at the people, as I do - not that there are many people at this point of the day. The sun is starting to set, and in Little Whinging, sunset means that it's time for everyone to go back inside, except for teenagers and people in their twenties. Still there are some people who aren't around my age that are about, most of them hurrying back to their homes. I think about Elia's mother and if many others around here hate me based off what they've heard, the rumours that my aunt and uncle were eager to encourage. When I was younger, it made me sad, then it just made me angry. Now I can't feel anything but a dulled sort of annoyance and a stab of pity for them.

I suddenly get the urge to run. I don't know from what, exactly, maybe from all these people, from this place, from what I know I'll have to do soon. But I do know I want to run. I used to do it a lot in Muggle school. I'm a fast runner, so the P.E. teacher would always make me run a lot during gym classes and during track and field. I'd make Harry do it with me at times, force him to run with me to and from school, laughing at his complains until he started laughing, too, and we'd eventually have to stop because we were laughing too hard. I remember running with Fred and George, away from Filch or some teacher or other, laughing all the while, until we'd reached a safe hiding place to catch our breath and attempt to hide our giggles. Sometimes we wouldn't be successful, and we'd stop running without realising it because we were laughing so hard, because we assumed the stitches in our chests came from the running and not the laughter.

Thinking over these memories, my feet starting moving gradually faster, and before I know it, I'm running at top speed down Magnolia Crescent. People give me bizarre looks, as though they've never seen someone run before (or maybe they've never seen someone in a rush before? Why would they, everything moves slowly here, nobody seems to really want to go anywhere), but I keep running. It's really rather comforting, the sound of my feet pounding on the pavement, the feeling of my heart rate speeding up. If I close my eyes, I'm almost eight years old again, I'm almost back at Hogwarts, running and laughing with Fred and George.

I want to keep running. I want to keep running and laugh while I do it until I collapse because I'm laughing too blood hard. But then I open my eyes again and see that I've made it to number five Privet Drive, and I know I can't escape reality. I slow to a stop in front of the garden path, jogging up it. I look up at the house, towering over me, one final, long look, as if something has changed and I need to spot it. But no, I remember, nothing in Privet Drive ever changes. But it certainly doesn't feel that way.

I walk up to the door. I don't have a key, so glancing around furtively to make sure the coast is clear, I pull out my wand and tap the doorknob while thinking,  _Alohomora!_ The door swings open with a quiet creaking noise.

I walk inside, slowly, hesitantly, as though it's been years since I've walked in here instead of mere hours. Or perhaps like I'm walking into a war zone, or as if I'm intruding, entering a place I should not be going. All I know is that the feeling is clear to me: I do not belong here. I hardly did before, and I definitely don't now. I kick the door closed, and walk slowly down the hall, looking up at the photographs on the wall. A lot of them include Candy, either by herself or with Aunt Daisy or Uncle Gabriel or both. There are photos of them separately, or together in some combination. There are no photographs of me. The only ones in the house are in my room, and I've already relocated those to the Burrow. It's quite lucky, actually: of the Death Eaters find this place, they'll find little proof that I ever lived here at first glance.

Suddenly, a loud screeching noise sounds from upstairs, and I jump, my hand immediately flying to my wand. Then I realise that it'll just be my owl, Midnight. I let out a sigh of relief, and turn around to hurry up the stairs and to my room. I open the door to my room and find Midnight standing there, as I had expected, seeming displeased.

"You scared me," I say, scolding him as I walk over to his cage. "You're lucky the Martins aren't here to complain about you anymore." Midnight merely looks up at me, then down at the door of his cage: "Oh, alright, I suppose you'll be wanting out, then. Fine. I don't have a letter for you to deliver, so you can come with me on my last look at the house."

I unlock his cage and open the door. He flies out and lands on my shoulder immediately. I stand in the middle of my room, turning in a circle to look around at everything. It was a small room, with nothing very fancy in it, it had often made me feel claustrophobic, but it still had been my room, and it had been my only sanctuary in this house.

"I almost kissed Fred there," I say out loud, slightly surprised that I remembered this. I point to the corner of my room and say, "Right there. And then Uncle Gabriel interrupted us. I would've murdered him if I wasn't so confused and embarrassed. And right there is where I saw Professor McGonagall for the first time," I say, pointing over to the doorway. "Because my aunt and uncle wouldn't let me read my Hogwarts letters, so finally she came and talked to me herself to make sure I knew what was going on. I was really bloody confused and frightened, I'll tell you that, Midnight.

"And I made up with Candy here," I say, pointing to the tiny desk. "We screamed at each other for a good thirty minutes until I stopped being so stubborn and listened to her... and I can't count the amount of times I've been here with Harry, talking about going back to Hogwarts and how much we hate the Dursleys and the Martins. All we do now is talk about hunting Horcruxes and where we'll start..."

I can see it all vividly, too, as though I'm looking at photographs or watching a movie. Eleven year-old me staring in surprise and confusion at Professor McGonagall, fourteen year-old me awkwardly avoiding eye contact with Fred after nearly kissing him, a gradually growing and changing Harry and I hanging out in this room.

The picture fades, though, and as soon as I make sure all the personal items from my room are gone and are either in my trunk downstairs or at the Burrow already, I grab Mignight's cage and leave the room. Midnight still on my shoulder, I walk over to Aunt Daisy and Uncle Gabriel's bedroom.

"You know, it was always forbidden for me to go in here unless I was cleaning," I inform Midnight. "It feels like I'm breaking some sacred law by going in here. I kind of like it."

I walk into the guest room after, which is clean and empty except for basic furniture: a wardrobe, a dresser, a bed, a desk. It has the feel of a room that has not been occupied in much too long, giving off a sensation of loneliness. I walk over to the bed and sit on it, Midnight flying off my shoulder when I do. The bed is surprisingly uncomfortable, and for once, have to come to the conclusion that the reason why the Martins' family never stays over is from the uncomfortableness of this bed, as opposed to their general unpleasantness.

"Come on, Midnight," I say, walking over to the door, intending to go to Candy's room, but I hardly have to tell him. He follows me automatically.

Candy's room is more personalised than her parents' room, the guest room, and my room before I had taken everything down combined. All over the walls are posters, posters of bands she likes, posters from movies she like. There are photographs of her and her friends everywhere, and a few of her and her boyfriend, Danny Miller. She has a stack of CD's on her desk and books strewn across her bed. All of it screams Candy.

"After we made up, sometimes I'd go over here in the middle of the night and we'd talk, really quietly, so we wouldn't wake up Aunt Daisy or Uncle Gabriel. She's really easy to talk to, once you get to know her. And once we got passed all the awkwardness between us. I think she's the only one out of them that I'll ever miss."

I walk out soon, closing the door behind Midnight when he flies out of the room, too. I walk down the stairs, Midnight zooming ahead of me. I look around the hallway, remembering when I had almost been kicked out, and it had been Aunt Daisy, Aunt Daisy of all people, who had saved my ass. I find him already circling just under the ceiling of the sitting room, as though somehow he knew that this is where I wanted to go next. My trunk is sitting off to the side, and I place Midnight's cage on top of it. When I walk to the middle of the room, Midnight flies over and gently lands on my shoulder again.

I look at the sitting room window and say, conversationally, "I broke that window once, you know." I look over at Midnight and see him look back at me. For a split second, I wonder if he really understands what I'm saying, but then I shake it off. "Accidentally, of course. Looking back on it, I realise it had to have been accidental magic, but I did't know I was a wizard, yet, did I, so I had no clue. Coincidentally, the reason I did accidental magic was because I did accidental magic at school and got in trouble for it..."

I still remember it vividly. When I was nine, Candy and her group of friends had been bullying me at school. I was mostly ignoring them, but then as they started making me angrier and angrier, I turned to them and started yelling right back. Eventually, my anger had reached the boiling point, and then they had started screaming, even Harry among them. I was confused as to why, until I realised that my hair was on fire. Not metaphorically, or anything. No, my hair was quite literally on fire. Our teacher had seen it, too, and gasping, ran over to where we were on the school yard, but by the time he had reached us, my anger had been extinguished (replaced with shock instead) and so had the fire on my head, shoulders, and back.

The most surprising part of it all was that when I went to check the damage, there was none. I had no burns, my hair hadn't burnt off, there weren't even any singes. The unfortunate part of this, however, was that the teacher believed that I had done some sort of trick simply for a cheap laugh and that I was trying to scare everyone there and burn down the whole school. Of course, I couldn't explain that that wasn't my intention at all when I couldn't even explain how it happened, so the teacher and I went over to the headmaster's office.

Well, it had been the teacher's word against mine, and I still had no way to explain what had happened, while the teacher had had a whole story down. I was doomed from the moment the teacher had put his hand on my shoulder and given me a stern look. Finally, the headmaster decided that I had clearly done this on purpose and demanded to know how I had done it. The more I told them that I didn't know, the more frustrated they got. In the end, they gave up trying to get an answer out of me. But I think the headmaster pitied me for my obvious distress about the whole situation, because instead of suspending me like he originally intended to do, he wrote a note for me to give to my aunt and uncle and left it to them to punish me themselves.

When he handed me the note and told me to give it to my teacher tomorrow signed by my guardian to prove that they had seen it, I almost asked if they could just suspend me.

The note was shaking in my hands as I walked home with Harry that afternoon. I must have suggested a million times that I just run away, and only walked up the garden path to number five under Harry's constant encouragement.

Before I did, however, I turned to him and said solemnly, "If I die, Harry, I leave you everything I have ever owned. Which isn't much, but whatever."

Uncle Gabriel's reaction was worse than I expected. He screamed and yelled at me until he was purple in the face and the veins in his forehead and neck were throbbing worse than ever. I yelled back as best as I could, trying to defend myself, getting angrier and angrier about the injustice of it all. As far as I was aware, I had done nothing, so why was I getting punished for a very strange accident? Eventually, my anger had gotten to bad that the sitting room window had exploded. We all ducked and hid from the damage, getting up slowly afterward, looking at the shards of glass lying everywhere.

My uncle hadn't even focused on the broken window. Instead, he focused on punishing me. He didn't waste time with yelling. Instead he just moved us out of sight and beat me over and over. I have a scar on my lower back from it. Even now, I will always acknowledge that beating as the worst one he had ever given me. I screamed and cried in my defence, because if I didn't do it, nobody would.

"But that wasn't my fault!" I insisted desperately. "I was on the other side of the room and I didn't throw anything! You saw me! I didn't do anything!  _You saw me!_ "

He did not listen. When he was finally finished, he threw me aside with a thud and announced that I would not be having any meals for the next three days, and then he was done with me. He went to go deal with the window situation, and I walked weakly to my bedroom to recover, wondering why I got punished for every inconvenience they had to deal with.

The sound of Midnight hooting snaps me out of my memories, and I'm seventeen again, not nine.

"Yeah, it was all kind of funny, now thinking about it," I say. "Well, the fact that my hair was on fire and that I blew up a window, not everything that preceded it and followed it..." I turn away, looking around. "You know, the bottom floor was just the place of conflict in general for me and the Martins. If there was ever going to be a fight, it'd be down here. Usually in the sitting room or the dining room. Speaking of which..."

I move over to the dining room, Midnight hooting softly, as though approving of the fact that I'm with him again and not drowning in my childhood memories. My hand skims over the surface of the dining table. The sight of the empty chairs makes me feel uneasy. It's almost as though the Martins have already died.

 _But then again,_ I think,  _I suppose it's almost like I've killed them and replaced their lives with new ones._

I move into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and letting out a deep breath. Midnight flies off my shoulder once more when I do, but I barely notice. Suddenly, I feel exhausted. Everything I've done has been tiring, draining even. It becomes apparent that I need to leave now. I can't stay here. I move over to the kitchen window and open it.

"Midnight, over here," I call, and he flies over and lands on the windowsill, before looking at me almost expectantly. "I haven't got a letter for you, but I don't think Apparition will sit well with you, so fly over to the Burrow, okay? I'll be there when you get there."

Midnight lets out a soft hoot, then nips at my fingers affectionately, letting me know he understands. With that, he takes off out of the window and into the open sky. He always blends in at night, but during the day he stands out clearly, a black spot in the clear blue. I watch him fly away until that black spot has disappeared, and then I turn around, sighing. I take one last look around the kitchen, before returning to the sitting room.

I close the curtains to make sure nobody will see me when I Disapparate, take my trunk and Midnight's cage in each hand, and prepare myself to leave again. I decide it's best to leave like I'm taking off a bandaid and just do it all at once, so I do. Before I can think about it too much, I turn on the spot and Disapparate, getting one last glimpse of empty chairs at a lonely, abandoned table, before darkness surrounds me.

I land on soft grass instead of hard pavement this time, and see that I've reached the back of the Burrow. There are enchantments all around the Burrow, so that you can't directly Apparate inside or in the areas surrounding it. Fred sees me, however, grins, and hurries over to me.

"Hazel!" he says, leading me over inside the limits of the enchantments, before kissing me quickly. My affection is ruined by a twinge of guilt, a reminder that I should not be doing this. "Taken care of the Muggles, have you?"

"Yeah," I say, "it's been handled."

"Can you hand;e the mess going on in here?" he asks. "Mum's gone mad over getting Bill and Fleur's wedding to happen in time. I think she's shouted at all of us to get a haircut at least three times."

"Well, your hair  _is_ getting a little long," I tease, as we walk up the back steps to the Burrow.

"Don't tell me you don't like it," he says teasingly, grinning.

I'm about to admit that I don't mind it at all, but then I scold myself for it, thinking,  _You're about to leave him for God knows how long, don't get his hopes up on anything. God, if you had any willpower or common sense you would've done him a favour and broken up with him by now, but here you are._

In the end, I go for the vaguest answer I can while still acting naturally, "Fine, then, I'll spare your feelings for now."

Laughing, he opens the door and gestures for me to go in first.

"Ever the gentleman," is what I want to say, with a smile on my face and slightly raised eyebrows.

"Why are you being so nice?" is what I actually say, with a hint of suspicion in my voice.

"Aren't I always nice to you, Knight?" he retorts, grinning cheekily.

"Ha, funny joke," I say, scoffing and looking over at him. "Even you can't believe that one, can you, Weasley?"

"I don't think I've said anything particularly untrue," he says, closing the door and leaning against it, folding his arms. He's all casual confidence, and he always used to give me the impression that he knew the exact effect he was having on me. Now, I'm not so sure. But, then again, is that not on me? Haven't I decided it's best that he distances himself from me, find someone else, someone better, someone who does not find themselves in constant danger?

"Where is everyone?" I ask, looking around at the empty kitchen. The meaning in my question is clear, judging by the way he raises his eyebrows just slightly: I want to know if I have him alone. If only he knew why, would he be so cool and casual then? Because I'm not, I'm certainly not, and I can only hope I'm doing a good job at pretending I am.

"Dunno," he replies truthfully. "There are a lot of rooms in this house, they'll be in one or the other. Don't question it," he continues, taking a step forward. "You know it's been hectic, a moment of peace is nice."

"Since when do you like peace?" I ask. "I thought you were all about chaos."

"Come on, Knight," he says. "You know this isn't  _my_ kind of chaos. My kind is way more fun."

"I see that charming arrogance is never going away," I comment.

"You only just noticed that?" he snorts, and I laugh, because it feels natural to do that.

I can't bring myself to laugh for long, though, and soon I've stopped. I stare at him. He stares back at me. We don't have much other choice but to do that. It occurs to me that I should do it. Grit my teeth and gather all willpower I possess and just bloody break up with him. Do I not owe him that much, to give him freedom from the burden I certainly leave on his shoulders and happiness and the ability to meet someone who won't disappear for an indefinite amount of time? It will hurt him at first, I've decided that's unavoidable, but a guy like Fred... it won't take him long to move on from someone like me.

Instead of being sensible, instead of doing the right thing, I do the opposite. I drop my bags, walk over to him, and kiss him. Stupidly, recklessly, I kiss him. He kisses me back right away, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer to him. I take his face in my hands, sighing into the kiss, one of my hands moving to tangle in his hair - which I now realise is getting quite long. I'll never tell to him, especially not at a time like this, but I quite like the length and sincerely hope Mrs. Weasley does nothing to it. Not that it will have anything to do with me soon enough.

Then he mutters my name against my lips, so softly, so surprisingly gently that I almost miss it, and I forget absolutely everything else except for him. Nothing else seems to matter, not for the moment, except that he's not close enough, he never seems to be close enough.

Just as I try to fix that problem, a voice behind us says, "You two really don't waste anytime, do you?"

I all but fly away from him, turning around as I do, to find Ron, George, and Ginny standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Ron looks disgusted (as if  _he_ didn't spend half of last year sucking Lavender Brown's face off), George looks delighted (clearly he's happy for the new opportunity to tease us), and Ginny just looks amused.

"Time is Galleons," Fred retorted, playing it off cool. "And you wouldn't waste those, would you, Georgie?"

"Touché, Freddie," George admits. "Anyway, the entire reason we came in here - and thank God we did, who knows what indecent things you would've done in here if we hadn't - is because Remus wanted to know if you're here yet."

"Why?" I ask, though I have a sneaking suspicion as to why.

"He didn't tell us why," Ron says, shrugging.

"Yeah, he just said he really wanted to talk to you," Ginny adds.

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere upstairs," Ginny replied. "You'll find him soon enough."

"Right," I say, turn to Fred and add, "I'll talk to you later."

"Sounds good to me," he grins.

I take my trunk and Midnight's cage and move out of the kitchen. I progress up the stairs until I find Ginny's room, which I'll be sharing with her, Hermione, and the bride-to-be, Fleur. After I've put my stuff on my camp bed, I leave the room in search of Remus. It's not hard, however, for the moment I walk out of the door I almost knock right into him.

"Remus!" I say, surprised. "Sorry, I didn't see you there - I was looking for you, actually - "

"So was I," he says.

It's then that I take him his appearance. His clothes are as shabby as ever, but it's his face that troubles me the most. Lately, after marrying Tonks, he has looked happier than I've ever seen him. I can't remember a time I've seen him smile as wide as he did at their wedding. But now, he looks different. He looks grave and sombre, and it only convinces me more of my theory, of the reason why he wants to talk to me.

"I was told you were looking for me," I say. "What's up?"

"Well," he says slowly, "a few months ago you told me you wanted to visit your parents' graves. And that you wanted me to come with you. Well, I think now's as good of a time as any to go."

"Now," I say blankly. I had expected this, but it's still surprising to hear. "Like, right now?"

"Yes, right now," he nods. "We'll be moving Harry from his aunt and uncle's house in less than a fortnight, and after that happens, I doubt we'll have any time to do such a thing, especially since you, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are all leaving right after the wedding. Unless you don't want to - ?"

"No!" I say quickly. "No, I do. Let's go."

He nods once. Remus leads me away, down the hallway and down the stairs. Halfway down the first set of stairs, we run into Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fleur, and Hermione.

"Hazel! You're here!" Mrs. Weasley says, smiling and hugging. "I suppose you've said your goodbyes to your aunt and uncle?"

"Yep," I say, smiling bracingly. Mrs. Weasley doesn't know anything about the fact that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I aren't coming back to Hogwarts, because we could all be seventeen or seventy, but she would never allow us to leave school to bring down Lord Voldemort.

"Hazel and I are taking a bit of a detour," Remus says pleasantly. "You needn't worry, though we'll be back before you know it."

I don't know why Remus doesn't just tell them where we're going, but I'm glad he didn't. It feels more right this way. Both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley look worried, but seem to trust Remus' word, nodding. They move out of the way for us to walk down the stairs, and I notice Hermione's curious look.

As I pass her, I murmur out of the corner of my mouth, "I'll tell you later."

When we reach the kitchen again, Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny are gone. Privately, I'm glad that they are. Remus leads me out of the kitchen, through the Weasleys' back garden, until we're outside the limits of the enchantments again.

"If you'll grab my arm, Hazel," Remus says, holding out his arm for me to take.

Just for a moment, I hesitate. I wonder if I'm actually ready to see my parents' graves, if I'm ready to see the truth quite plainly in front of my eyes for the first time in my life, if I'm ready for the emotions I'll doubtlessly feel. But this is something I have to do, I remind myself, whether I'm ready or not. I need to do this. I can do this.

Gathering my courage, I hold up my hand slowly and close it tightly around Remus' forearm. He twists on the spot, and then we're gone, surrounded by darkness.


	3. Through All Hardship

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Three: Through All Hardship**

 

When I land once again and we see light, we're in a field. The grass is soft beneath my feet and flowers are growing all around. The sun shines down on us, warming our skin, and a breeze blows. In spite of the heat of the summer day, the wind is cool. Ahead, I see houses. Not terribly big, but cosy, giving an impression of warmth, of community. They're not far from each other, but they're not as close together as the houses in Privet Drive, giving a sense of unity, but privacy all the same.

"That's where your parents lived," Remus says, filling the silence. "I live in the town, too. Mostly Muggles, but there's the odd wizard here and there - more than you'd think at first glance. We can stay at my house for a while afterwards if you want. I expect you don't want to return to the Burrow right away afterwards."

"Good thinking," I hear myself say, my words blown away with the wind.

"Shall we go?" Remus says, holding out his arm, and vaguely, I wonder how he can seem so serene. Still, all I do is link arms with him and allow him to lead me away.

I'm more aware of myself than I think I've ever been. I'm aware of every breath I take, of every direction my eyes move to take in the scenery, the way my heart rate speeds up and slows down in turn, of Remus right beside me as calm and steady as ever, of my legs moving forward, of every single footfall onto the grass. My footsteps feel like earthquakes, like I'm stomping on the floor. I've had my moments of clumsiness before, but I've never felt so clumsy and awkward in my life. I can practically feel the gears in my mind turning with every thought that crosses my mind. It almost feels like I'm marching into my own death, and my body is taking advantage of its last moments to just  _feel_.

We soon reach the town and walk down the roads. It occurs to me that I should be taking everything in more. This is where I had lived, if only for a year of my life. I feel like some part of this town should be calling out to me, I should be able to just  _know_ where my parents' graves are, or where they had lived, I should be able to feel it in my bones, but I can't. I feel heavy, I feel dread. I want to run away, scream, stop moving and collapse, but my feet keep moving forward to keep up with Remus' pace.

Sooner than I had expected, since we're still in town with no graveyard in sight, he stops. I look at him questioningly, but he's simply looking ahead, and that's when I realise that we're standing in front of a house. I follow his gaze and look at the house. It's not so different from the others, a medium-sized cosy-looking place, looming over us. The only difference is that this gives off the air of abandonment. Nobody has been in here, not for a long time. It seems to taunt me.

"Hazel, this was your parents' house," Remus tells me, but he doesn't have to. One glance had been enough.

"Nobody's lived here," I say. I meant for it to be a question, but it doesn't come out like that, since the answer's already clear.

"No," Remus says anyway. "They never sold it to anyone to honour your parents. The city wanted to sell it to others, but everyone in the magical community here refused, protested to it. Told them that your parents were old war heroes - which, of course, isn't a lie - and that they wanted to keep it open to honour the family. The city eventually said fine, as long as they paid for the thing, so everybody pitched in. And now here it stands, the same way it has since - since they died."

I stare at the house, my heart heavy in my chest, before turning over to Remus. He seems familiar with staring at the house wistfully, longingly, and it gives me the impression that he's done this a lot, gone up to the house and stared at it, wanting to go inside but never finding himself able to do it.

"Can we go in?" I say, but even as I say it, I've already detached myself from Remus, I've already taken a step forward into the garden path. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I take note of the fact that it's odd how nobody's out and about, finding it strange but still feeling grateful that nobody else is here to interrupt me.

"Hazel, no, I don't think so - " Remus says.

"Why not?" I say, looking back at him. "They say they do it to honour them and the family, right? There's only me and Aunt Daisy, and even if I'd never wiped her memories, we both know she'd never have visited. It's just me. I'm the only one left. Besides, they left the house to me along with everything else. It's mine. I have a right."

I keep walking. I know Remus is saying things to me, but I can't hear or make sense of them. I walk closer and closer to the house, until I finally reach the front door. I reach for the doorknob, twist it, and then - 

Nothing.

I should have expected this, I realise. Of course the bloody thing wouldn't just be open. Did I expect the house to recognise me, for the door to spring open at my touch? Still, all I do is twist the doorknob repeatedly, trying to open it.

"Come on," I say, frustrated. "Come on!"

The door still won't budge.

 _This was my house, too,_ I think desperately.  _This had been mine, too, I had been torn away from it all, too._

Nothing still.

But then I remember: spells. I know spells. I can use magic to get in. I've just wrapped my hand around the handle of my wand when Remus appears beside me at the door.

"Hazel," he says, gently. "Hazel, you can't get in. There are all sorts of spells on it. The house is yours by rights, yes, but nobody - well, nobody ever expected Hazel Knight to show up alive here again."

"Why not?" I demand. "It's not like they thought Voldemort killed me, too."

"That is true, but - " Remus begins, but he's cut off by the sound of a man shouting behind us.

"Oi! You two get away from there! That's the house of two former war heroes, how dare you try and break in?"

My body tenses, my hand still on the doorknob. Everything seems to freeze, just for a moment.

"Hazel," Remus says again, and time starts up again.

I let go of the doorknob almost mechanically.

"Let's just go."

I turn around to face the man who had shouted. He's a tall man with greying, thinning hair, well into his fifties. He stares right back at me, and I wonder if he'll recognise me. Everyone says I look so much like my mother, will he see the resemblance? What will he even do if he does? Will be backtrack and allow me to precede? Or will he shout at me just the same?

Regardless, if he does recognise me, he gives no sign of it, because all he does is continue to glare at me. It makes me wonder if this man had ever seen my parents, let alone known them. The things a rumour can do.

"Sorry, sir," I finally say. "I didn't know that this was the house. We don't live here, you see, and we were going to visit a family friend. My godfather tried to tell me, but... I - I didn't listen. Won't happen again."

"It better not," the man says, and with one last distasteful glance, he begins walking away, muttering loudly. "In broad daylight! Of all the nerve!"

"Hazel - " Remus repeats.

"Let's go," I say bracingly.

I bring out my arm, and Remus allows me to link it through his again. We walk down the garden path and away from the house, and I force myself not to look back.

Neither of us talk. We just walk together in silence, and I start wondering if I'm truly ready to see this. I had nearly lost it at the sight of the house, what will I do when I see their actual graves? I can feel Remus looking at me, but I look determinedly ahead of me, and he says nothing. The silence will surely suffocate me. I want Remus to say something,  _anything_ , but what is there to be said, really?

Anxiety starts building up when I see the graveyard in the distance. The closer we get to it, the more the anxiety builds up. When we reach the gate that blocks us from the graveyard, I wonder whether I'll simply explode from it and that will be that.

"Well," says Remus, "here we are. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Well, we're already here, so I suppose we might as well," I say weakly, breathing out a sigh.

"Hazel - " he begins.

"I'm joking, Remus," I inform him, though I know it's not funny. "Of course I want to do this. I need to do this. Come on."

Remus hesitates, nods, and pushes open the gate. It swings forward with a creak that seems far too loud in the silence that surrounds. We walk slowly through the graveyard, and I try not to think too hard about the fact that there are corpses all around, buried beneath our feet. I look at the tombstones and wonder how many of them were parents, if their kids miss them much.

We slow to a stop in front of two tombstones, close together, and breathing becomes almost impossible. It's my parents' graves. Engraved on my father's grave is:

_Brandon Knight_

_August 23, 1960 - August 17, 1980_

_Death is but the next great adventure._

 

 

My mother's grave reads:

_Jasmine Knight_

_June 18, 1960 - August 27, 1980_

_Through struggle, we find strength._

 

My heart is constricting painfully. I clench both hands into fists to keep them from shaking, pressing my lips together to keep them from quivering. Before I can do anything else, the graves transform. They come together to form a statue of a man and a woman holding a baby. They look happy. The plaque reads:

_On August 27, 1980, Brandon and Jasmine Knight lost their lives to Lord Voldemort. Their daughter, Hazel Knight, however, survived. May we never forget them and keep them in our thoughts. May Brandon and Jasmine's courageous deaths remind us to fight against all evil, and may Hazel remind us to fight to survive through all hardship. Until the very end._

No sooner have I read the plaque before it transforms back into two tombstones.

"The local wizards did that, too," Remus says. "Muggles can't see it, of course, but wizards can, whenever they step close enough to the grave."

The way Remus' voice quivers makes me tear my eyes away from the grave to look at him. He looks close to tears. I don't know when it will stop surprising me to see Remus lose control in such a way, but I still can't help but be shocked. I take my free hand and put it on his arm, hoping to comfort him, but how can I comfort him when I can't even comfort myself? How can I even comfort someone about something so terrible as this?

Leaning into Remus more and looking back at the graves, I try to suppress the feeling of my heart being squeezed and ripped apart repeatedly. I don't know what I had expected. Some sort of connection? But there is nothing. Just those two tombstones staring back at me. And of course there is nothing, they are dead. My parents are dead and buried under the ground and have been for sixteen years, probably nothing by bones by now, and - 

I let out a dry sob. I take my hand from Remus' hand to clap it in front of my mouth, muffling the sound of my dry sobs. Remus puts an arm around my shoulders and brings me closer to him, and I continue trying to muffle my sobs, tears welling in my eyes. I blink them back with difficulty, still staring at the graves.

I realise Remus is crying when I notice the way his body shakes slightly. I put an arm around his back, squeezing my eyes shut and staring down at the ground. I try to calm down, to breathe deeply, but it's almost impossible when I feel as though I'm seconds away from suffocating.

_May Hazel remind us to fight to survive through all hardship. Until the very end._

That's me. A fighter, a survivor. That's who I am. That's who I have to be.

 _Breathe,_ I think.  _Breathe, breathe, you have to breathe._

Slowly, I breathe, shakily but still breathing. Taking my hand from my mouth, I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I open my eyes, looking up at the graves again. Slowly, I grab my wand and point it over at each of their graves. A wreath of flowers forms in front of each of them, and then I lower my wand.

"I love you, Mum," I whisper, so quietly even I have trouble hearing it. "I love you, Dad."

I give the tombstones one last, lingering look, before looking away, taking a shuddering breath and whispering, "Goodbye."

"Remus," I say, louder this time. "Come on." When he does or says nothing, I move away from him to face him, and he looks down at me with tears still streaming down his face. I reach up and wipe the tears from his face, before saying, once more, as firmly as I can, "Come on. We should go to your place, I think."

"Are you sure?" he says, as steadily as he can.

"Yeah," I say, smiling weakly. "Yeah, I'm sure. Come on."

I link arms with him and lead him away, back to the gate through which we came. I know I can't look back, so I don't.

"You lead the way from here," I tell him, when we cross the gate once more.

Wordlessly, he starts leading, walking through the streets of the town. I don't know why so many little people are out, but I don't mind. We must be a depressing sight, I think: a man with red eyes and a tear-stained face and a girl who's clearly just barely managing to keep it together. It's a beautiful day, blue skies and a shining sun without a cloud in sight, and I think the weather's mocking us. The sun beats down on us, but I feel no warmth from it anymore.

We reach his house what could be minutes, hours, or days later. It's small, smaller than a lot of the houses in the town, shabbier than the rest. He pulls out a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, and we walk through it. Remus closes the door behind us, blocking us from the sunlight. I look around the dimly lit corridor. Most of the furniture's been used before, I can tell, but I don't mind.

"Where's Tonks?" I ask Remus quietly, but at the moment, I don't care all that much.

"On a mission for the Order," he replies, with the air of someone who's just cried his eyes out and wants to do it some more. "Won't be back until tomorrow. Sitting room's this way."

He leads the way into the small sitting room. From there, I lead him to the sofa and sit him down gently. I put an arm around his back, knowing I should do something to help him but not knowing what.

Finally, I blurt out, "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"That would be nice," he says weakly, and goes to move, but I stop him.

"Don't worry," I say quickly. "I can make it. I'm sure your kitchen's not that hard to figure out."

I walk over to the doorway across from us and find myself in the kitchen. I turn on the kettle and grab two mugs and two tea bags. While I wait, I look over at Remus in the dimly lit sitting room from the doorway, at the way he's looking around the room like a lost child, and wish I could do more for him. He's always been able to help me, and I can't do the same for him. The light shines through the curtains, outlining his dark figure in light.

While I bustle around making the tea, he calls, "Hazel, could you put some whiskey in there?"

I find the Firewhiskey easy enough, but looking over at Remus' current state, I don't know if I want to put any in Remus' tea. Finally, deciding he'd notice if I didn't and don't want him to somehow get even more upset if I don't, I barely put in half a shot. I look over at my own mug, and after a moment of thought, put some in my own, too.

I walk back over to the sitting room and put the mugs down on the nearby table. Remus is sitting in a slump, his head in his hands, and I'm glad I didn't put much Firewhiskey in his tea. I sit down beside him and feel completely useless.

"The tea'll get cold," I say weakly, after a moment.

We both drink in silence, before putting the mugs back down. I thought the tea might have helped in some way, but he just goes back to his original position. I decide to put an arm around his back and just wait. Wait for what, though, I don't know. For him to say something? To magically feel better? For me to stop feeling so bloody empty inside so I can do more to help him? I can't tell.

What could have been minutes or hours later, he takes his head from his hands, looks over at me, and says shakily, "When I moved over here, it was really just coincidence that it was in the same town as your parents. It was the most affordable place I could find that was still decent, so I came here. When I found out it was the same town as your parents, I thought they would be angry with me. I figured they were sick of me and really did not want to see me much anymore. On the contrary, though, they were pleased about it. Thrilled. Not only could they see me more often, they said, but I could be more involved in your life, being your godfather, and I could be there in case - in case anything happened. I was supposed to be there in case anything happened. Why wasn't I there? Why couldn't I have been there for them - for you? I should have been there - I should have - it should have been - "

He cuts himself off, putting his head back into his hands and lapsing into tears again.

"Remus," I say weakly. I want to tell him that it's not his fault in any way, that if he had been there he probably would've died with my parents or my parents would have sacrificed themselves for him as well as me, but I know it won't mean anything. At least, today it won't. Today, it will do nothing to help. Today, I think the most I can do is be there for him, so I stay where I am and say nothing more.

Remus doesn't move, continuing to sob quietly, and neither do I, unless it's to be closer and tighten my grip around his back. The tea stands there on the table, forgotten, getting gradually colder, but neither of us touch it. He lapses in and out of tears. Sometimes he'll take his head from his hands again to tell me about my parents, stories and memories, some of them happy, others less so, but no matter what, he always puts his head back in his hands again. I say nothing, rubbing his back and trying to be there for him as best as I can.

The room gets darker as the sun sets and is replaced by the darkness of night, but neither of us get up to provide more light. I look over at his silhouette and wonder how long he's suppressed these feelings, how often he allows himself to let go like this, how much of his cheery, calm personality is just playing pretend. There's so much I don't know. Too much.

When Remus leans against me and I notice that his breathing is much deeper, slower, steadier, I realise that he's fallen asleep. I hesitate, before getting up slowly, carefully laying him down on the couch. I walk out of the room, looking around until I find a closet with a blanket. When I find it, I enter the living room again and cover Remus gently with the blanket.

I decide to stay for the night and see how Remus is in the morning. I walk over to the staircase and ascend it slowly, heavily. I walk into the first bedroom I find. I can already tell, from the pictures and books all around the room, that this is Remus' room as opposed to the guest room that I suspect is here somewhere, but suddenly, I'm so exhausted, so drained, that I can't bring myself to take another step to find that room. All I want to do is sleep, to forget the heaviness, the emptiness that's spread through my entire body over the hours, if only until the morning.

I walk forward slowly over to the bed and collapse onto it, all but throwing myself onto it.

Luckily, I've passed out long before my head hits the pillow.


	4. The Seven Potters

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Four: The Seven Potters**

 

I'm woken up by someone shaking me gently awake and telling me to wake up. I open my eyes slowly to find not Hermione, like I had expected, but Remus looking down at me. For a split second, I'm confused, until I remember the events of yesterday. Almost automatically, grief fills me up once more.

"Good morning," Remus says, with a weak smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough, I reckon," I say bracingly. "You?"

"Well enough," he repeats. "Come down soon, I'm making breakfast. I've got an extra toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet."

"Okay," I say. "Yeah, okay. Be down there soon."

He nods once, before walking out of the room. Slowly, I get up out of bed and walk over to the bathroom. I shower and brush my teeth quickly, before redressing and walking downstairs.

"Just in time," Remus says. "Breakfast is ready. I'm afraid it's not quite up to the standards of Hogwarts' or Mrs. Weasley's cooking, but I think I'm quite good. Even Tonks says so, and she's always been brutally honest."

"I'll take her word for it, then," I say, as I walk into the dining room to see Remus setting down two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the small table.

I sit down, Remus sitting opposite me, and we eat with a heavy silence in the air. I'm just about to say something when he does.

"I want to thank you, Hazel," he says seriously. "I was in a very emotional, bad place last night, and you were there for me through the whole thing. Very few people in this world have seen me in such a state, and I'm grateful that you did not shy away and instead supported me while I was. Thank you."

"It was nothing, Remus," I say, looking over at him earnestly. "Really, it was the very least I could do. In fact, I should be thanking you for even agreeing to come with me to see their graves."

"I wanted to be there for you," he says simply.

"So did I," I retort, and he smiles at me.

We continue eating in silence for a moment, until I remember what he had said when he told me about moving to this town. Yesterday, I knew nothing I could say to comfort him would work, but today... maybe today is a different story.

"Remus," I say, putting my fork down. "Yesterday you told me about moving here and how - how you should've been there when Voldemort came and killed my parents. And maybe you realise this now that you've had time to think a little more rationally, but... I just want you to know that it's not your fault in any way. Even if you were there, there's a huge chance that my parents would've sacrificed themselves for you as well as me, or that you would've just died with my parents. Either way, it's not something my parents would've wanted and it's not what I would've wanted. I just need you to know that none of this is on you. It's on Voldemort. All the pain, the suffering, the death... that all comes down to Voldemort. No one else."

Remus is silent for a long time, looking down at his plate, before slowly looking back up at me.

"I know that," he says, sighing deeply. "I know it is not my fault, not really, but sometimes - a lot of the times, really - it is hard to remember that. Especially on a night like last night."

"Well," I say, smiling at him as comfortingly as I can, "just know I'm her to remind you, then."

When we finish breakfast, I help him wash and clear away the dishes. Once finished, we stand in the kitchen in silence.

"Erm - I should head back to the Burrow," I say. "You said we wouldn't be long and we stayed here overnight. They'll probably be thinking we got kidnapped by Voldemort, or something."

"A valid fear," he reminds me.

"I know it's valid, but still," I insist. "You coming?"

"No," he says after a moment of thought. "I think it's best I be alone, at least for a while. And I ought to be here when Tonks gets back."

"Okay," I say, nodding. I hesitate, before hugging him. When he hugs me back, I whisper, "Thank you."

"It was nothing," he said.

"No, it wasn't," I say, pulling away and looking at him meaningfully. He nods and half-smiles.

I take a few steps away to Disapparate, and he says, "Send the Weasleys, Hermione, and Fleur my regards."

"I'll be sure to," I say. I look over at him, and though I know it won't be long until I see him again, I still say softly, "Take care, Remus."

"You, too, Hazel," he says, nodding.

I return the gesture, before turning on the spot and Disapparating. I find myself in the back garden of the Burrow again. Mrs. Weasley's face appears at the window, before disappearing, only to reappear at the door in seconds. She flings it open, calling, "Hazel's back! She's fine!"

It doesn't take long until others appear: Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Bill, Charlie, and Fleur, to be exact. Clearly, they were more worried than I had originally thought. Mrs. Weasley pulls me inside the protective enchantments of the Burrow and holds me at arms' length.

"Hazel! Remus said you'd be back soon, but then you didn't show up after a few hours, and when night came and you still weren't here... oh, we were so worried, but we didn't know where to look for you, and Arthur suggested to wait out the night and see if you came back, and when we all woke up and you still weren't there... where ever did you two go?"

I hesitate, looking around at all the people gathered, before taking a deep breath and saying, "My parents' graves, Mrs. Weasley. We went to see my parents' graves. I'd been thinking about it for a long time, but I didn't want to go alone, and I figured Remus was the best person to take with me, so... so we went. And then after we stayed at his place, and I ended up staying the night, and now... here I am. Remus is still at home, so don't worry about him."

"Oh, Hazel," Mrs. Weasley says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," I say, smiling reassuringly. "Really, I'm okay."

"Okay," she says, squeezing my shoulders. "How about we head inside?"

I nod, and start moving over to the door. I can tell Mrs. Weasley is looking at me as I do, but I pretend that I don't know. When I pass Fred, he grabs my shoulder to stop me, looking concerned.

"Hey," he says, "you alright?"

"Fine. Totally fine," I say quickly. "Look, I should go - you know - look at my stuff. Make sure I have everything, that I didn't forget anything at the Martins. I'll see you later."

With that, I turn away and walk away as quickly as I can without making it look like I'm avoiding him, slipping through the door between Bill and Ginny, with absolutely no intention of even opening my trunk.

 

***

 

The days pass by, most of them spent preparing to leave soon to go Horcrux hunting, helping prepare for the wedding, and avoiding Fred. I know I have to talk to him and break up with him soon, it's something that I'm aware of almost all the time, but I find it impossible to grit my teeth and just do it. You're supposed to break up with someone because you don't like them anymore. How do you break up with someone because you like them too much to still be with them? When you care about them too much to want to hold them down while you disappear for God knows how long?

Sometimes, I wonder if he's gotten the message from my avoiding him so much and considers us broken up. But then I remember Fred's not the type to give up so easily. Maybe he'll just break up with me out of annoyance from my avoiding him. I almost hope he does. It would make my job easier if he doesn't like me anymore. Regardless, I do have to congratulate myself, even with some misery; it takes a certain amount of talent to sit beside someone through a whole meal and still be able to get away from them before they can stop you to talk to you.

Today is something of a blessing for this reason, in spite of my nerves. Today is the day that we take Harry from Privet Drive to the Burrow, and we're all so busy going over the plan and getting ready that I don't even have to try to avoid Fred.

The plan is relatively simple. Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Mundungus Fletcher, and I each take Polyjuice Potion so that we look like Harry. We all travel at the same time, each of us accompanied by a guardian, so that if we're attacked by Death Eaters, they won't know which Harry is the real one. I had actually been the one to think of the plan, if only by accident.

Three weeks ago from today, we had been debating what we would do about the situation. The Order had already sent out fake bait saying we would get him on the thirtieth, but we had to expect at least a few Death Eaters on the lookout. None of us were coming up with ideas that would actually work, and so we were all getting frustrated.

"Look, nothing we do will work!" Mundungus bursted out. "There's only one Harry Potter, and no matter what we do, they will find him and try to do him in!"

"Mundungus - " Moody said angrily.

"No," I said suddenly, surprising even myself. When Moody had looked at me dangerously, I backtracked quickly. "No, what I mean is - he's got a point. No matter what we do, we can't stop them from finding him somehow, with all their spies and Harry's connection from Voldemort. But just because there's only one Harry doesn't mean we can't make it seem otherwise."

"What are you on about, Knight? We don't have time for this," Moody said impatiently. "We have three weeks."

"Hear me out," I said. "A group of us takes Polyjuice Potion so that we look like Harry. From there, we get whatever method of transport that isn't tracked by the Ministry. Thestrals, broomsticks - Hagrid, you have your motorbike, don't you?" I looked over at him for confirmation, and he nodded. "With more than one Harry, even if the Death Eaters do attack, they won't know which Harry Potter is the real one. Each Harry will have a guardian, too. They'll have to scatter, which will put less people on the real Harry. Plus it'll confuse them, and confusion can be lifesaving in times like this. I'll be one of the Harrys. And you know what," I added, "since Mundungus was the inspiration for this idea, we might as well have him be one of the Harrys, too."

"Hey!" Mundungus protested. "I don't want to do that - you can't make me - "

"You know what, Mundungus?" I had snapped. "Considering the fact that you've been little use to us this entire time, and that if it wasn't for us you probably would've been sent to Azkaban long ago for being a little thief, I think we  _can_ make you. So wouldn't you just rather be Harry Potter for a little while?"

There was a surprised silence at my words. Even I was a bit shocked. I didn't think I would say anything like that. Mundungus simply looked around sullenly before nodding, clearly admitting defeat.

"Harry won't like it," Hermione had spoken up, breaking the silence.

"I know," I agreed, sighing. "I'm trying to think of how to get him to be okay with it."

"Here's how," Moody said impatiently, "we're all of age, we've all made the choice, and he can't stop us. It's a good plan, and unless he gives us a better one, that's what we're going with."

"One problem," Tonks interjected. "Polyjuice takes a month to make, and we've only got three weeks until we go to get Harry."

"I happen to have Polyjuice Potion in my possession," Moody replied. When we all looked at him in surprise, he said, "Well, don't look so bloody shocked about it. An Auror has to have a wide range of potions at their disposal, even an ex-Auror."

"Well, that solves that, then," Fred had said in a cheery voice.

"But wait a minute," Bill said. "We can't all just head here together. That'll make it easier for them to find the real Harry."

"So we split up," I said. "Each of us heads for a different safe house. There can be a Portkey in each one that can take us here. That'll split them up nicely, won't it?"

When nobody said anything else, Moody had spoken up.

"Well then," he said, "we've got Hazel and Mundungus who have volunteered to be two of the Harry's - "

"Oi -  I never said anything - " Mundungus complained.

"But you're going to do it, anyway, remember?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

" - who else volunteers?" Moody continued, as if there had been no interruption.

It hadn't been hard to get more volunteers. Automatically, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George had volunteered. Moody decided that six fake Harry's was enough, since it'll be difficult to get more than seven methods of transportation and seven safe houses. After that, it had been a matter of getting protectors, which had been simple enough, too. Moody had volunteered himself right away, as did Mr. Weasley, Remus, Tonks, Bill, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Hagrid. Mrs. Weasley and Fleur agreed to stay at the Burrow to hold down the fort. Afterwards, we discussed what methods of transportation we could use. Moody informed us he could get his hands on some Thestrals, we could easily borrow a few Broomsticks from the Burrow, and Hagrid would use his motorbike. From there, people volunteered their houses as safe houses. This one was followed by more hesitation, but eventually we got enough safe houses.

After the meeting, while we were all leaving, Moody stopped me. Immediately, the way you always do when Moody wants to talk to you, I had assumed he was going to yell at me for something. On the contrary, he said in a low voice, "That was a good plan, there, Knight. I think you're going to become a very useful member of the Order. Besides, I haven't seen somebody besides me control Mundungus like that in years."

It's a surreal experience, being praised by Mad-Eye Moody, but it was still pretty nice.

And now here we are, on the day of. As promised, Moody had managed to get two Thestrals. Along with the Thestrals, there are four broomsticks and Hagrid's motorbike. Moody also brought along his flask of Polyjuice Potion and two enormous sacks with old clothes, glasses, and luggage resembling those of Harry. Everything is ready to go. All we have to do is wait for night to fall and to get to Privet Drive.

When it's time to go, we all get together on the various methods of transportation that we have, while Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Fleur watch, telling us to be careful. It's by an extreme lack of luck that I end up being on a broomstick with Fred.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, looking over at me with slightly raised eyebrows and a grin, and I try my best to make my smile look genuine.

Afterwards, we put Disillusionment Charms on each other in order so that we blend into the night sky to avoid being seen by Muggles and Death Eaters alike.

"On my count, we leave," Moody announces loudly, and I hold on tighter to Fred at his words, somehow still feeling farther away from him than ever. "Stick together as best as you can. And don't stop if one of us dies. That applies for the way back, too."

"You're in a cheery mood, Mad-Eye," Tonks calls over to him, sitting on a broomstick with Remus behind her.

"Shut it, Tonks," Moody snaps. "One... two... THREE!"

At this, we all take off into the air. I look around, wishing I could see more than the outline of the others. I can't even see Fred, but I can feel him in front of me, my hands around his waist confirming that he is really there. The fact that I can't see anyone else make me feel like we're alone. Any other time the feeling would've been more than welcome.

"Looks like I haven't lost it," Fred says to me, and my heart constricts slightly as I hear the smile in his voice.

"Really? You think so?" I say, trying to act natural. "Because I definitely remember you being a  _lot_ better at flying than this."

"Ah, shut up, Knight, I'm just warming up," he retorts. "In fact, I'll just take my hands off..."

I see the outline of his hands lifting into the air, feel him shift, and grin in spit of myself.

"Cut that out, Weasley," I say.

"Why? Scared?" he says tauntingly.

"No, but you're being stupid." I say. "And I might just let it slip to Moody that you were being stupid, and then he'll curse your balls off."

"Fine, fine, I'll stop," Fred laughs. "But only because I like my balls where they are."

"I'm sure you do," I say, patting him on the arm and shaking my head.

Silence falls upon us again, and I wonder miserably how I'm ever going to manage to break up with him, Soon, Moody shouts that it's time for us to land, and I'm glad for it, because I've been thinking up a breakup speech and I was worrying that I'd just snap and scream out that we have to break up. I shake my head, as though to clear myself of such thoughts, and focus on the back garden of number four Privet Drive, getting closer and closer.

Once we land in the back garden of the Dursleys' house, we take the Disillusionment Charms off of ourselves. I notice Harry staring out the kitchen window as we do. As we get to our feet, he wrenches the door open and flings himself into our midst. There's a general cry of greeting as Hermione flings her arms around him, Ron claps him on the back, I beam at him, and Hagrid says, "Alrigh', Harry? Ready fer the off?"

"Definitely," Harry says, grinning. "But I wasn't expecting this many of you!"

"Change of plans," Moody growls, carrying the two bulging sacks and looking from the darkening sky to the house to the garden with dizzying rapidity with his magical eye. "Let's get you undercover before we talk you through it."

Harry leads us into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, we settle on chairs, sit on Petunia Dursley's gleaming work surfaces, or lean against her spotless appliances. I look around at all of them; at Harry, as dark-haired and green-eyed as ever; at Ron, long and lanky; at Hermione, with her bushy hair tied back in a plait; at Fred and George, with identical grins on their faces; at Bill, badly scarred and long-haired; at Mr. Weasley, kind-faced and balding, with his glasses slightly awry; at Moody, battle-worn and one-legged, his magical eye whizzing in its socket; at Tonks, whose short hair is back to her favourite shade of bubblegum pink; at Remus, who I notice is greying and more lined than I remember; at Kingsley, bald and broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his long hair and beard, standing hunched over to avoid hitting the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small and dirty, with is droopy, beady hound's eyes and matted hair. I feel fond of all of them, even Mundungus - well, almost.

"Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?" Harry calls across the room.

"He can get along without me for one night," Kingsley replies. "You're more important."

"Harry, guess what?" Tonks says from her seat on top of the washing machine, and she wiggles her left hand at him, where a ring glistens.

"You got married?" Harry yelps, looking from Tonks to Remus.

"I'm sorry you couldn't be there, Harry, it was very quiet," Remus explains, and I smile vaguely at the memory of the wedding. It had been a quiet affair indeed, with few people there, but that only seemed to emphasise how happy Remus and Tonks were. Nothing detracted from them. Even without the Horcrux hunting, I have no intention of getting married any time soon, but after watching them be so blatantly in love, the dull ache in my chest almost made me wish for it.

 _Well,_ I think, glancing over at Fred briefly enough to convince myself that it was innocent.  _Maybe one day. Maybe._

The wedding hadn't made me forget the war, but all throughout the ceremony, I was happy enough for Remus and Tonks not to worry about it too much.

"That's brilliant," Harry's saying, "congrat - "

"Alright, alright, we'll have time for the cosy catch-up later," Moody roars over all the talking, and silence falls over the kitchen. He drops the sacks at his feet and turns to Harry. "As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He's made it an imprisonable offence to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who from getting at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother's charm does that already. What he's really done is stop you from getting out of here safely.

"Second problem: you're underage, which means you've still got the Trace on you."

"I don't - "

"The Trace, the Trace!" Moody says impatiently. "The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters.

"We can't wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Pius Thicknesse thinks he's got you cornered good and proper."

"So what are we going to do?" Harry asks.

"We're going to use the only methods of transportation left to us, the only ones the Trace can't detect, because we don't need to cast spells to use them: brooms, Thestrals, and Hagrid's motorbike.

"Now, your mother's charm will break under two conditions: when you come of age, or - " Moody gestures around the pristine kitchen - "when you can no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that you're never going to live together again, correct?"

Harry nods.

"So this time, when you leave, there'll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you get out of its range. We're choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen.

"The one thing we've got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn't know we're moving you tonight. We've leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: they think you're not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we're dealing with, so we can't just rely on him getting the date wrong; he's bound to have a couple Death Eaters patrolling the skies, just in case. So we've given about a dozen different houses all the protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we're going to hide you, they've all got some connection to the Order: my house, Kingsley's house, Molly's Auntie Muriel's - you get the idea."

"Yeah," Harry says, and the fact that Harry's saying so little gives me the idea that he's hiding something.

"You'll be going to Tonks' parents. Once you're within the boundaries of the protective enchantments we've put on their house you'll be able to use a Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?"

"Er - yes?" Harry says. "Maybe they won't know which of the twelve secure houses I'm heading for at first, but won't it be sort of obvious when - " Harry pauses, looking around the room - "fourteen of us fly off towards Tonks' parents?"

"Ah," says Moody, "I forgot to mention a key point. Fourteen of us won't be flying towards Tonks' parents. There will be seven Harry Potters flying through the skies tonight, each of them with a companion, each pair heading for a different safe house."

From inside of his cloak, Moody pulls out the flask of Polyjuice Potion. Moody doesn't need to say another word, because Harry seems to understand immediately.

"No!" he says loudly, his voice ringing through the kitchen. "No way!"

"I told you he'd take it like this," Hermione says, with a hint of complacency.

"If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives - "

" - because it's definitely the first time for all of us," Ron says sarcastically.

"This is different - pretending to be me - "

"Well, none of us really fancy it, mate," Fred says earnestly. "Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as scrawny, specky gits forever."

Harry does not smile. Instead, he says, "You can't do it if I don't cooperate, you need me to give you some hair."

"Well, that's the plan scuppered, then," George says. "Obviously there's no chance of any of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate."

"Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who isn't allowed to use magic," Fred adds. "We've got no chance."

"Funny," Harry says. "Really amusing."

"If it has to come to force, then it will," Moody growls, his magical eye now quivering in its socket as he glares at Harry. "Everyone here's overage, Potter, and they're all prepared to take the risk."

Mundungus shrugs and grimaces; the magical eye swerves to glance at him out of the side of Moody's head.

"Let's have no more arguments. Time's wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now."

"But this is mad, there's no need - "

"No need!" Moody snarls. "With You-Know-Who out there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we're lucky he'll have swallowed the fake bait and he'll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he's mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out, that's what I'd do. They might not be able to get at you or this house while your mother's charm holds, but it's about to break and they know the rough position of this place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can't split himself into seven."

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I glance at each other, then look away almost at once.

"So, Potter - some of your hair, if you please," Moody says. Harry pauses, causing Moody to bark out, "Now!"

All of us watching, Harry reaches up to the top of his head, grabs some hair, and pulls.

"Good," Moody says, limping forward and pulling the stopper out of the flask of the potion. "Straight in here, if you please."

Harry drops his hair in the mudlike potion. The moment it makes contact with the surface, the potion begins to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turns into a bright, clear golden colour.

"Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson, Harry!" Hermione says, catches sight of Ron's raised eyebrows, and blushes slightly. "Oh, you know what I mean - Goyle's potion looked like bogies."

"Right, then, fake Potters line up over here, please."

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and I line up in front of Petunia's gleaming sink.

"We're one short," Remus points out, his brow furrowed.

"Here," Hagrid says gruffly, and he lifts Mundungus by the scruff of his neck and drops him down beside me.

"I'm a soldier, I'd sooner be a protector," Mundungus protests, causing me to roll my eyes.

"Shut it," Moody growls. "As I've told you, you spineless worm, any Death Eater we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. It'll be the protectors who have the most to worry about, the Death Eaters'll want to kill them."

Mundungus does not look particularly reassured, but Moody is already pulling out half a dozen eggcup-sized glasses from the inside of his cloak, which he hands out, before pouring a little bit of Polyjuice Potion into each one.

"Altogether, then..."

The six of us only hesitate for a moment before drinking. I gasp and grimace as the potions hits my throat, and by the sound of it, I'm not the only one. I can feel myself shooting upwards, growing taller, my hair becoming shorter. I squeeze my eyes shut, looking down at the ground and leaning back against the sink.

When I open my eyes and look up and down the line, I find five identical Harry Potters in the place of Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Mundungus. When I look down at my body, I find Harry's body in my clothes.

Fred and George turn to each other and say, "Wow - we're identical!"

"I dunno, though, I think I'm still better-looking," Fred says, examining his reflection in the kettle.

"Merlin, it feels weird being a bloke," I say, resisting the urge to look down my shirt. "No offence, Harry."

"Er - none taken," says the real Harry, looking rather overwhelmed at the sight of us. "I think."

"Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I've got smaller here," Moody says, indicating the first sack, "and vice versa. Don't forget the glasses, there's six pairs in the side pocket. And when you're dressed, there's luggage in the other sack."

The six of us start rummaging through the sacks, pulling out sets of clothes, putting on glasses, stuffing our own things away.

"I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo," Ron says, staring down at his - or is it Harry's? - bare chest.

"Harry, your eyesight really is awful," Hermione says, putting on a pair of glasses.

"This is so  _weird_!" I say, as I pull off my jeans to replace them with a pair from the sack. "Not that you're not a good-looking bloke, Harry, but I don't know if I like this."

"You're telling me," Harry says weakly, and I grin.

Once dressed, the six of us take rucksacks and owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.

"Good," Moody says, as at last seven fully dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harry Potters stare back at him. "The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be travelling with me, by broom - "

"Why'm I with you?" grunts the Harry nearest the backdoor.

"Because you're the one that needs watching," Moody growls, and sure enough, Moody's magical eye did not waver from Mundungus as he continues. "Arthur and Fred - "

"I'm George," says the twin to whom Moody was pointing. "Can't you even tell us apart when we're Harry?"

"Sorry, George - "

"I'm only yanking your wand, I'm Fred, really - " he says, and I shake my head. Some things really never do change.

"Enough messing around!" Moody snarls. "The other one - George or Fred or whoever you are - you're with Remus. Hazel - "

"We'll be on Thestral, Hazel," Bill says, smiling at me. "You protected me, now it's time I return the favour."

I smile back at him. I'd told him several times that what I had done was nothing, and that if anything, I should have done more, but he insists on thanking me periodically and insisting he'll have to return the favour one day, so now I simply go with it.

"Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by Thestral - "

Hermione looks reassured as she answers Kingsley's smile. Kingsley does have a way of making sure everyone around him is calm.

"Which leaves you and me, Ron!" Tonks says brightly, knocking over a mug tree as she waves at him. Ron does not look quite as reassured as Hermione.

"Remember, she's an Auror," I remind him, leaning over to whisper quietly.

"An' you're with me, Harry. That alrigh'?" Hagrid asks, looking a little anxious. "We'll be on bike, brooms and Thestrals can't take me weight, see. Not a lot o' room on the seat with me in it, though, so you'll be in the sidecar."

"That's great," Harry says.

"We think that the Death Eaters will expect you to be on broom," Moody explains, seeming to sense that Harry isn't as enthusiastic as he says. "Snape's had plenty of time to tell them everything about you that he's never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we're betting they'll choose one of the Potters who looks at home on a broomstick. Alright, then," Moody goes on, tying up the sacks and leading the way to the backdoor. "I make it three minutes until we're supposed to leave. No point in locking the door, it won't keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. Come on..."

Together, we march out onto the dark back garden. On every side broomsticks are leaping into hands; Bill and I have already hopped onto our Thestral, as have Kingsley and Hermione (Hermione having some help by Kingsley). Hagrid is standing ready beside the motorbike, goggles on. Harry gets into the sidecar, looking rather humiliated. I can't help but laugh a little, seeing his discomfort while sitting there like a child in a bumper car.

"Alright, then," Moody says. "Everybody ready, please. I want us all to leave at exactly the same time, or the whole point of the diversion's lost."

"Hold tight, now, Ron," Tonks says, and Ron throws a forcing, guilty look at Remus before putting his hands on each side of her waist.

Bill and I glance at each other and start laughing in spite of ourselves. Hagrid kicks the motorbike into life, and it roars like a dragon.

"Ready to go, Hazel?" Bill asks over the noise.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," I reply.

"That's the spirit," he grins.

"Good luck, everyone," Moody shouts, as Bill starts gripping on tighter to the Thestral. "See you all in about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three. One... two... THREE!"

And as one, we all rise into the air. The wind in our faces and Privet Drive becoming farther and farther away. I hold on tighter to Bill and don't look back, forcing myself to look only ahead.


	5. Alastor Moody

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Five: Alastor Moody**

 

As we break out of the circle of Order members, I look around the skies carefully, looking out for any signs of incoming Death Eaters. At the moment, everything seems peaceful - too peaceful. It makes me feel like something is about to happen. Something bad.

"We'll be going to Dedalus'," Bill tells me matter-of-factly, distracting me momentarily from my worries. "It shouldn't be too long a ride. Smooth sailings, really - "

And then out of nowhere, out of nothing, before Bill can even finish his sentence, Death Eaters appear around us. Six, seven, eight of them.

Immediately, curses start flying everywhere, and it's all Bill can do to avoid them. I try to curse them back, but everything is moving so quickly, it's impossible for any of my curses to hit their target.

"How is this happening?" I say, ducking my head to avoid a flash of green light. "How could they have known it was today? Someone must have leaked it, but - "

"Oh, bloody fucking hell - look out! It's him - it's him!" Bill yelled.

"It's who?" I say, looking around, but I already know long before I finally lay eyes on him.

Voldemort. He's flying through the air, apparently not needing a broom or anything else to support him, flying directly towards something. Moody and Mundungus, who are close by us. Moody apparently already knows, because he's firing curses as best as he can while trying to get he and Mundungus the hell out of there. Mundungus looks around, lays eyes on Voldemort, and screams.

"He's panicking," I say, after firing an unsuccessful Stunning Spell at a nearby Death Eater. "Dung's panicking."

"He's going to Disapparate," Bill says, realisation dawning on him while he ducks a Cruciatus Curse sent his way. "No - NO!"

"He wouldn't," I say, wide-eyed. "Not even Mundungus - " but even as I say it, Mundungus twists on the spot, ignoring Moody's desperate attempts to stop him, and with a cracking sound, he's gone. "MUNDUNGUS!"

Voldemort lets out a cry of rage, angered by the realisation that the Harry he's been chasing isn't the real Harry. I prepare to be the next one he targets, as the closest Harry in proximity, but that's not what Voldemort does. Instead, he points his wand at Moody and shouts, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

I wish I could say time slowed down. That everything else in the world stopped as Alastor Moody fell backward off his broom and plummeted down to the earth below. That even Voldemort and his Death Eaters froze to allow Moody the respect he deserved as he died. But no, everything moves as quickly as ever as it happens. I watch Mad-Eye Moody die and fall to the ground in the blink of an eye and watch as the world does not cease to exist as I had expected it would if Moody were ever to die. Moody, the strong warrior, the unbreakable soldier, one of the best Aurors the Ministry has ever seen, dies just like that and the world continues as always.

"Moody," I whisper, shocked and horrified and trembling. "Moody, Moody, Moody."

"He's coming," Bill says urgently to me. "He's coming, you have to fight, you have to be ready!"

I don't think I am ready, but I don't think it matters, either, because I have to deal with it, anyway. So I continue trying to fight off Death Eaters as best as I can, and sure enough, soon Voldemort flies towards me. My heart is thundering in my chest, surely about to burst through at any moment from beating so hard, but I simply point my wand at him and start aiming every curse I can think of at him.

He deflects all the curses with ease, as I had admittedly expected. But contrary to what I had expected, he doesn't try to kill me or Bill right away. Instead, he looks at me with narrowed eyes, before saying, "It's not him!" and Disapparating. Two of the Death Eaters Disapparate with him, but six remain.

"He knew," Bill says, looking shaken but continuing to avoid curses best as he can. "How did he know?"

I feel confused, too, but I can't really think about it, too focused on the image of Moody falling off his broom again and again...

"Moody," I say again, my voice shaking. "Moody - we can't go back for him. There's too many of them, and we'd never - we'd never find him like this, and he - he'd kill us if we went off track to find him, he always said - he always said we should never break ranks if one of us died, he'd always go on about it..."

"You're right," he says, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady. "We need to keep going ad keep fighting. Hold on."

The Thestral puts on another spurt of speed, but the Death Eaters follow with apparent ease.

" _Impedimenta!_ " I cry, pointing my wand at one of the Death Eaters, before the incantation for the Killing Curse can leave their lips. Miraculously, the curse hits the Death Eater square in the chest, sending them flying backwards.

" _Stupefy!_ " Bill says, stopping a Death Eater from using the Cruciatus Curse on me right on time, causing the Death Eater to slip off their broom and fall rapidly to the earth. I look away quickly when I start seeing Moody instead of the masked Death Eater.

Bill and I work together to take out a third Death Eater, but three more still remain, apparently fiercer and more determined than all their fallen comrades combined. One of them points their wand at me and yells something I can't quite make out; there's an almost blinding flash of orange that lights up the night, and pain shoots up my wand arm so painfully that I very nearly drop my wand. I let out a cry of pain, momentarily letting go of Bill to clutch onto my arm.

"Hazel? What happened?" Bill yells.

"I don't know - that Death Eater used this curse and now my arm hurts like fucking hell," I say, gritting my teeth from the pain.

"Can you still use it?" he asks.

I point my wand at the Death Eater who had cursed me and cry out, " _Stupefy!_ " but the pain messed with my aim, causing me to miss by at least a foot.

"Not really at my best right now," I say, ducking my head to avoid yet another flash of green light.

"Right," he says, and it sounds like he's just made his mind up on something. "Right, hold on to me very, very tightly. With both arms."

I hesitate for only a second before stopping my attempts to curse the three Death Eaters to wrap my arms around his waist tightly. He leans forward, and I follow suit, and suddenly we turn so sharply that I lurch forward, causing me to let out a gasp. We're moving faster than I've ever moved before, everything whipping by us. I squeeze my eyes shut as the wind slaps me over and over again, holding on tighter to Bill in fear of falling. My arm hurts more and more the tighter I hold on, but I grit my teeth and hold on, trying to ignore the sensation of a thousand sharpened knives stabbing my arm over and over again.

We stop, slowing down so suddenly that I feel nauseous, thinking somewhere in the back of my mind that if the Knight Bus could fly, this is what it would feel like. I look down at the ground and see a different scene below me; instead of the bright lights of the city, I see a much less populated countryside.

"Have we lost them?" Bill calls to me.

His question brings me back to my sense. Ignoring the excruciating pain in my arm, I look around for any Death Eaters. All are gone except for one, who somehow managed to keep up with us through all of that.

"All but one. Merlin, they just don't fucking quit," I grumble. "You keep flying, I'll deal with this one."

"But your arm - 

"I'll deal with it." I say firmly, shifting around slightly to be able to face the Death Eater more squarely and point my wand at her.

It's difficult, being able to focus and aim properly with the searing pain, but I know I have no other choice, so I fight as hard as I can. Most of it is deflecting her curses and ducking any Unforgiveable Curses. Finally, I manage to hit her with a Stunning Spell and turn as she falls off her broom.

"Done," I say.

"Good timing," he says, sounding relieved. "We're here."

Sure enough, we start lowering rapidly to the ground, heading directly to one house, far away from the others nearby. Finally, the Thestral lands surprisingly lightly on the ground, and I let out a deep breath, as if I'd been holding it all this time. Perhaps the hardest part is done. We've made it to the safe house.

Bill hops gracefully off the Thestral, and I slide off it clumsily after him. I almost fall over and have to use Bill to steady me. I can feel myself changing back and take my glasses off quickly when my vision blurs, stuffing them in the pocket of my jumper. Now able to focus on the pain in my arm fully, I let out a grunt of pain and clutch onto it again, following Bill to the door.

" _Alohomora!_ " he says, tapping the doorknob, the door swings open, and I follow him inside.

"Something tells me this isn't Dedalus Diggle's," I say, looking around as we walk into the sitting room.

"That's because it's not," Bill says, nodding. "It's - it's Moody's." When I look up at him suddenly, he elaborates quickly. "It was closer than Dedalus' place, and we had to lose them, and it's - well, it's - "

"Nobody else was going to use it," I say for him.

He nods slowly, looking down at me gravely.

"I can't believe it," he says quietly. "Moody dead. If I hadn't seen it, I would never have believed it, not in a million years. Out of all of us, he was the last person I would've expected to - to die."

"The way he fell," I say weakly, collapsing onto a sofa and resisting the urge to curl up in a ball and sleep for a hundred years. "He dropped. It didn't even feel like looking at a person. And that was  _Moody._ If that could happen to him, what chance do any of us have?"

"Don't think about it too much," he says, and it's then that I notice how pale he looks. "Let's try and move forward right now. How's your arm?"

"Shitty," I reply. "Every time I think I'm getting used to the pain, it gets about ten times worse."

"We should deal with that before we head back to the Burrow," Bill states. "I'll look at some of Moody's books. There are loads, there's got to be something for it."

I just nod, sinking back into the sofa as Bill starts pulling out books from the shelves. As he flips through pages, I realise for the first time that I'm shaking badly and have been this entire time. I hunch over slightly, and start taking deep, shuddering breaths. Slowly breathing in, then out, reminding myself over and over again that I just need to stay calm, that I need to keep it together. It does nothing for the pain in my arm, which if anything is getting worse and worse by the minute, but it's not too long before I've stopped shaking altogether.

"I've just realised," Bill says soon after, still skimming through pages, "that we're really behind. We've missed the Portkey in here, and we're definitely going to miss the one at Dedalus' house. We'll have to use the Thestral to get back."

"That won't take too long, though, won't it?" I say bracingly. "Those things can move  _fast_."

"That's true," he says fairly. "Not as fast as a Portkey, though."

With that, we fall silent. I start thinking about how the others are holding up, if they had as much trouble as we did, if they've also fallen behind, if the real Harry has been discovered or not. For a second, I wonder if any others have died, too, but I try to push it from my mind. I know I can't be thinking like this, not right now, but it plagues my mind. I decide to turn to Bill for reassurance, but he speaks before I can.

"Hey, I think I've found something!" he says, standing up straighter. "There was a bright flash of orange, right?" When I nod, he says, "Describe the pain."

"Painful," I say through gritted teeth. I know I ought to be more helpful, but when you're in this much pain, all rational thought tends to be thrown out the window.

"I need you to be a bit more specific if we're going to do this," he says, looking at me with slightly raised eyebrows and the hint of a smile.

"Oh, I don't know - erm - it feels like being stabbed over and over again, but with, like, a thousand knives," I say. "That better?"

"Yes, it is," he says, looking back down at the book and nodding. "And you said it just keeps getting worse, right?" I nod again. "Good, I've found the curse, then. And more importantly, I've found the counter-curse."

He walks over with the book in one hand and his wand in the other. He kneels in front of me, placing the book on the sofa beside me, and points his wand at my arm.

"It says this stings a bit, but you need to stay absolutely still throughout the entire thing, alright?" Bill says, looking at me carefully.

"It can't be any worse than this," I say, but brace myself all the same.

He nods once, and gets to work immediately, muttering incantations under his breath that I can't quite make out, moving his wand up and down my arm slowly. I make sure to stay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. When there is no new pain, I'm tempted to ask him if this counter-curse is even going to work, but before I can get the words out, my arm suddenly feels like it's been broken in half. I let out a cry of pain, but still manage to stay still.

"What the he - ?" I begin, but before I can even finish this indignant sentence, all the pain disappears. The pain from before, and the new pain. My arm feels as normal as ever.

Bill moves away, lowering his wand and looking at me carefully, asking, "Better?"

"Yeah," I breathe, looking down and feeling my arm tentatively, "all better. I guess we're even, then."

Bill lets out a laugh, but shakes his head as we both get to our feet, "Not even close, if you ask me. There's more I should be doing for you. More I should've done for Moody."

"Hey, it wasn't your fault," I say earnestly. "With how quickly everything was moving and how many of them there were, you couldn't have stopped Voldemort from killing him and you couldn't have stopped to get the body. So what exactly could you have done for him?" When Bill says nothing to this, I continue, "If it's anyone's fault, it's Mundungus' for leaving. And the person who sold us out. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Mundungus did that, too. The way he left so quickly, it could've been that he was expecting them."

"I'd be surprised," Bill says, surprising me. "Look, I was thinking the same thing as you at first, but now I'm not so sure. If Mundungus was going to sell us out, he'd probably be doing it for his own gain. The way he'd gain the most from it is if he told them everything, but they seemed surprised at the fact that there was more than one Harry Potter. If he was about to sell us out, why would he leave out something so important? You-Know-Who coming straight for you is enough to make anyone panic, and that's exactly what I think happened. Dung panicked, and that's all there really is to it."

"So if not Mundungus, who did it?" I ask, biting my lip. "Do you think it happened accidentally? I know it's far-fetched, but if someone just said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person... that's how Stan Shunpike got arrested, isn't it? And I can't see any of us selling each other out any other way."

"I think it's possible," Bill said. "But I think we shouldn't think too much on it until we get back to the Burrow. We can see who's back and how everyone is and we'll figure it out from there. I'll send a message to Dedalus, tell him we're fine, and then we'll be off."

He waves his wand and a Patronus in the shape of an eagle bursts from Bill's wand and soars through the air, flying through the window. We watch it go until the bright, silvery bird is out of sight, before facing each other again. Silently, he cocks his head toward the door, gesturing for us to leave, and I nod. We walk back out of the house together, back over to our Thestral. We both hop on, and soon we're back in the air.

"I don't think we'll have any more trouble, but be on the lookout for any Death Eaters, anyway," Bill says, rather unnecessarily, since I'm already looking all around, watching out for any signs of threat. "I'll get us moving faster. The sooner we're back at the Burrow, the better."

We speed up, and I try not to focus on Moody's house becoming farther and farther away, standing alone and abandoned. I keep an eye out for any Death Eaters, but find nobody. It always feels like there's somebody nearby, be it behind us, in the corner of my eye, anywhere. It's a creeping sensation of being watched, even though I know nobody is there. Perhaps it's just a reminder that we're not safe anywhere anymore. It's a relief when we start flying towards the ground again and the speck that is the Burrow becomes bigger and bigger, closer and closer.

We land in the large back garden of the Burrow, sliding off our Thestral's back almost immediately. Looking over at the Thestral, I decide it deserves some huge reward for all it's been through tonight, but not having anything to give it, I settle with patting it and stroking its mane idly for a moment, looking into the window of the Burrow, where everyone else appears to be gathered.

"Looks like everyone else is here," I say. "Blimey, we were really behind."

"Seems like it," Bill agrees grimly. "Look at us, fashionably late."

I let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, we're all messed up, but at least we look cooler."

"That's the spirit," he says, as we walk to the door.

We enter the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Remus, and Tonks are all standing. There's a general outcry at our appearance, telling me that they'd been a tiny bit worried about us.

"Bill! Hazel! Thank God, thank God - "

Mrs. Weasley runs forward, but the hug Bill gives her is fleeting. Looking directly at his father, he says, "Mad-Eye's dead."

Nobody speaks, nobody moves, and in that pause, that moment of silence, I can see Mad-Eye falling again, the darkness swallowing him whole, and have to blink quickly to get rid of the tears forming in my eyes.

"We saw it happen," Bill continues. "Just after we broke out of the circle: Mad-Eye and Dung were close by us, they were heading north, too. Voldemort - he can fly - went straight for them. Dung panicked, I heard him cry out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated. Voldemort cursed Mad-Eye, hit him square in the face, he fell backward off his broom and - there was nothing we could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our tail - "

Bill's voice breaks.

"Of course you couldn't have done anything," Remus says.

We all stand looking at each other. Even now, even after having time to think about it, after having seen it, I can hardly believe that Mad-Eye is dead, the idea of it still makes my head spin, but I know it to be true. Mad-Eye, the seemingly unstoppable, unbreakable...

At last it dawns on all of us, though nobody says it, that we don't have to stand around waiting. In silence, we follow Mr. and Mrs. Weasley back into the sitting room, where I can hear Fred and George laughing.

Fred looks over at me when we walk in and stands up quickly, the ghost of a smile on his face. I see the silent question on his face, if I'm alright, but all I can do is smile weakly.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "What's happened? Who - "

"Mad-Eye," Mr. Weasley says. "Dead." The grin turns into a grimace of shock. Nobody seems to know what to do, rendered useless in such a situation. Tonks is crying into a handkerchief; she'd been close to Mad-Eye, his favourite and his protégée at the Ministry. Hagrid, who's sitting on the floor in the corner where he has the most space, is dabbing at his eyes with a tablecloth-sized handkerchief. My eyes settle on George, and I give up a sharp intake of breath at the sight of him. His ear is gone. Where his ear had been is instead a clean, gaping hole.

"What happened?" I say, crossing the sitting room in a few, quick steps and kneeling down beside Fred, staring at George with wide eyes.

"Lost an ear," George says, far too casually. "Snape's work."

" _Lost_ \- Snape - " I repeat breathlessly. "Are - are you okay?"

"Saintlike," he says.

When I look from him to Fred cluelessly, Fred whispers, rolling his eyes, "He means he's holy. You know, hole-y. It's pathetic, I know," he continues, at the look on my face. "The whole world of ear-related humour and that's what he goes with."

I can't bring myself to smile or laugh tonight, but I still manage to look at George more easily. "You're terrible."

Bill walks over to the sideboard and pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey and some glasses.

"Here," he says, and with a wave of his wand, he sends twelve full glasses soaring through the room to each of us, holding the thirteenth aloft. "Mad-Eye."

"Mad-Eye," we repeat, and together, we drink.

"Mad-Eye," Hagrid repeats, a little late, with a hiccup.

"So Mundungus disappeared?" says Remus, who had drained his glass in one.

The atmosphere changes at once. Everyone looks at Remus, appearing to want him to go on, but also looking a little scared of what they might hear.

"I know what you're thinking," says Bill, "and we wondered that, too, because they seemed to be expecting us, didn't they? But Mundungus can't have betrayed us. They didn't expect there to be seven Harrys, that confused them the moment we appeared. Why wouldn't he have mentioned an essential point? I think Dung panicked, it's as simple as that. He didn't want to come to begin with, and You-Know-Who went straight for them. It was enough to make anyone panic."

"You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected him to," Tonks sniffed. "Mad-Eye said he'd expect the real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, then he looked for Kingsley..."

"Yes, and zat eez all very good," Fleur snaps, "but still eet does not explain 'ow zey knew we were moving 'Arry tonight, does eet? Somebody must 'ave been careless. Somebody let slip ze date to an outsider. It is ze only explanation for zem knowing ze date but not ze 'ole plan."

She glares at us all, daring one of us to contradict her, but nobody does. The only sound to interrupt the silence is the sound of Hagrid hiccuping into his handkerchief.

"No," Harry says, causing us to look at him, surprised. "I mean... if somebody made a mistake and let something slip, I know they didn't mean to do it. It's not their fault," he repeats, speaking a little louder than perhaps he would've without any Firewhiskey. "We've got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don't think anybody in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort."

More silence follows his words. I agree with him, but all I can think about is Mad-Eye, the way he had always been scathing about Dumbledore's willingness to trust people...

"Well said, Harry," says Fred, unexpectedly from beside me.

"Yeah, 'ear, 'ear," George adds, with a half glance to Fred and I. I feel slightly more relaxed, and the corner of Fred's mouth twitches.

At the look on Remus' face as he looks at Harry, almost pitying, Harry demands, "You think I'm a fool?"

"No, I think you're like James," Remus replies, "who would've thought of it as the height of dishonour to distrust his friends." Remus turns away, to face Bill. "There's work to do. I can ask Kingsley whether - "

"No," Bill says at once, "I'll do it, I'll come."

"Where are you going?" Fleur and Tonks ask together.

"Mad-Eye's body," Remus replies. "We have to recover it."

"Can't it - " Mrs. Weasley begins, with an appealing look at Bill.

"Wait?" Bill says. "Not unless you'd rather the Death Eaters find it."

Nobody speaks. Bill and Remus say goodbye and leave. I glance over at Fred, who looks back and me and takes my hand. I know I shouldn't allow it to happen, but at a time like this, I have no desire to move away, and leave my hand there.

"I've got to go, too," Harry says, the only one who is still standing.

We all look over at him, startled.

"Don't be silly, Harry," says Mrs. Weasley. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't stay here," he says, rubbing his forehead, and I wonder if his scar is bothering him again. "You're all in danger while I'm here. I don't want - "

"Don't be so silly!" Mrs. Weasley says. "The whole point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Fleur's agreed to get married here instead of in France, we've arranged everything so that we can all stay together and look after you - "

"If Voldemort finds out I'm here - "

"But why should he?" Mrs. Weasley asks.

"There's a dozen places you might be now, Harry," Mr. Weasley points out. "He's got no way of knowing which safe house you're in."

"It's not me I'm worried for!"

"We know that," Mr. Weasley says quietly, "but it would make our efforts tonight rather pointless if you left."

"Yer not goin' anywhere," Hagrid growls. "Blimey, after all we went through ter get you here?"

"Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?" George says, hoisting himself up on his cushions.

"I know that - "

"Mad-Eye wouldn't want - "

"I KNOW!"

There's a long and awkward silence at this, in which I try to figure out how to convince him that leaving will not help any of us at all.

"Where's Hedwig, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asks coaxingly. "We can put her up with Pigwidgeon and Midnight and give her something to eat."

Harry does not answer her question, draining the rest of his Firewhiskey instead.

"Wait til it gets out yeh did it again, Harry," says Hagrid. "Escaped him, fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!"

"It wasn't me," Harry says flatly. "It was my wand. It acted of its own accord."

After a few moments of silence at his words, Hermione says gently, "But that's impossible, Harry. You mean you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively."

"No," Harry says. "The bike was falling, I couldn't have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn't even a spell I knew. I've never made golden flames appear before."

My brow furrows slightly, while Mr. Weasley says, "Often, when you're in a pressured situation you can produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they're trained - "

"It wasn't like that," Harry insists.

I frown slightly, still staring at him. I don't know how it could be possible for your wand to act of its own accord. Logically, it must have been him just acting instinctively, his subconscious kicking in.. what else could it be?

Harry mutters something about fresh air, sets down his glass, and moves quickly out of the room, clutching onto his forehead. His scar again. It must be.

As the others start talking about how to convince Harry to stay, I look over at Ron and Hermione. The looks on their faces tell me that they're thinking along the same lines as me. I jerk my head in the direction that Harry had gone, letting go of Fred's hand with some reluctance and standing up, and they get the message, nodding and standing up themselves.

"We'll go talk to him," I say, dusting off my trousers, though there's nothing really to dust off. Together, the three of us head out of the house and into the back garden.

"You don't think he's really thinking of leaving, do you?" Ron asks us, when we're alone in the quiet of the night. It's nice to not be around so many people. I didn't realise that the atmosphere of the living room was so overwhelming until now.

"I think he is," I say grimly, as we pass by the Thestral Bill and I had used, grazing peacefully. "He thinks we're in danger so long as he's around, of course he wants to."

"But we're in danger no matter who we're with!" Hermione points out. "And we want to be there for him."

"I know that," I say, nodding. "Harry just needs to see it, too."

We finally find him at the gate of the garden, shaking terribly and clutching onto the gate. We look at each other worriedly, before hurrying forward to stand on either side of him.

"Harry? Harry!" I say, grabbing his shoulder gently.

He seems to snap out of it, looking ahead with wide eyes, before looking at each of us, his skin pale.

"Harry, come back in the house," Hermione whispers. "You aren't still thinking of leaving?"

"Yeah, you've got to stay, mate," Ron adds, thumping him on the back.

"Are you okay?" I ask, peering at him carefully, noting that he still looks shaken. "You don't look so well."

"Well," Harry replies shakily, "I probably look better than Ollivander."

Harry tells us that he'd just seen into Voldemort's mind again. Voldemort had been torturing a screaming Ollivander, who had been begging for mercy, apparently punishing him. By the looks of it, Ollivander had told Voldemort that if he used a wand different from his own, he'd be able to kill Harry without the problem of them having twin wands appearing again. But as it was, that hadn't worked out, because Harry had still managed to destroy the other wand he had been using, Lucius Malfoy's. Ollivander had disappointed Lord Voldemort, even if he hadn't meant to, and Voldemort was making him pay for it, the way he always did.

Ron and I are both appalled at the news, but Hermione looks downright terrified.

"But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar - it wasn't supposed to do this anymore! You mustn't let that connection open up again - Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!"

When Harry does not reply, Hermione grips onto his arm.

"Harry, he's taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don't let him inside your head, too!"


	6. Holding Back

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Six: Holding Back**

 

In the days that follow, the shock of losing Mad-Eye hangs over the house, apparently there in the corner of our eyes, so that we're always at least semi-aware that it's there and he's not. Even though I saw him die and his death is starting to sink in, I keep expecting to see him stumping in through the back door like other Order members, who come in and out to relay information. I have no idea how to deal with my grief and guilt, but Harry seems to think that the best course of action is to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon as possible.

"Well, you can't do anything now, you're not seventeen yet, are you?" I point out to him. "We can't do all that much out there while you've got the Trace on you. And we can plan here as well as anywhere else, can't we? In fact, I'd even say it's better. Better here where at least we're somewhat safe than out there when we're totally on our own." I pause for a moment, before looking at him slightly suspiciously and adding, "Unless you've got an idea of where Voldemort might be hiding some of his Horcruxes?"

"None," he admits.

"Hermione's doing some research," I inform him. "Said she's saving it for when you got here, but I managed to pry a hint or two out of her when she wanted to go to sleep and got tired of me nagging her. But we can't spring into action unless we've got leads."

"Well, the Trace breaks on the thirty-first," Harry points out. "That means I've only got to stick around for four days, and then - "

"Five," I say firmly. "We are  _not_ missing Bill and Fleur's wedding. They'll be so disappointed, Mrs. Weasley even more so, I bet. C'mon," I say, when Harry looks at me darkly, "I  _know_ you don't want to disappoint Mrs. Weasley. From what Fred and George tell me, it's one thing to make her mad, it's a whole other thing to make her feel  _disappointed._ According to them, it's worse than death itself." At the look on Harry's face, I half-smile and add, "Now, that could just be them being dramatic, but I know you don't want to risk it."

Harry finally lets out a reluctant laugh. I smile back at him, but I'm wondering mournfully when I started to feel guilty just for mentioning Fred's name.

"Speaking of Mrs. Weasley," I say, suddenly remembering. "She's been trying to get it out of Ron, Hermione, and I. You know, what we're going to be doing."

"Ron told me that, too," he admits. "Has she not dropped it yet?"

"No," I say with a sigh. "I was hoping she would, because Mr. Weasley and Remus both dropped it after we told them that Dumbledore told you not to tell anybody but us, but... if I'm honest, I'm really not all that surprised. Anyway, I think she'll be after you next, so just - "

At that moment, Fred walks down the hall and I stop talking immediately. He glances at me momentarily, looking like he's about to say something, but then he looks away quickly and keeps walking. Clearly he's noticed that I've been avoiding him and is deciding to steer clear for the time being. I scold myself for feeling disappointed. But then I'm thinking about Mad-Eye, about how there's virtually no such thing as true safety, and I realise I have to tell him. Now. No more childishly avoiding him.

"Hazel? Hazel!" Harry says, snapping me out of my trance.

"What?" I say, shaking my head and looking back at him, having forgotten he was there. "Oh - erm - yeah, just be ready for her interrogating you, too, and er - yeah. I have to go," I continue quickly, "I'll see you around, okay?"

I'm halfway down the hallway before he can respond. I find Fred talking to Bill when I turn the corner. My breath catches in my throat slightly at the sight of him and decide that the world is being purposefully cruel to me by making me realise just how attractive he is all over again. Not even entirely in how he looks. The way he was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, casual but still engaged in the conversation, the smile on his face and the way he's laughing. It all screams Fred.

But then they've stopped and they're looking at me expectantly, Fred looking tense, and I realise that I have to say something. I clear my throat rather awkwardly before speaking.

"Erm - Fred, can I talk to you? You know, in private?" I ask, trying not to sound completely miserable. "Preferably now."

His body relaxes, and the relief is visible on my face, making me feel worse than ever. He nods, says goodbye to Bill, and follows me back down the hallway and up staircases until we reach Ginny's room, which is blissfully empty. Closing the door behind me, I turn to face him slowly, dreading every moment. When I look up at him, him with his hair and his freckles and his eyes and his lips, I regret putting this off for so long. I should have done this long ago, it hits me now, shouldn't have waited so long to do this, but now I have to try and get through this. I decide to speak quickly before he does, so that I don't lose my nerve.

"Erm - I'm sure you've noticed that I've been avoiding you," I say, avoiding looking directly at him. "And I'm sure you've been confused about what it's all been about. But I've decided that it's not fair to you for me to be doing this, so - so I'm going to be open with you about what's been on my mind."

"Really? That's great!" he says, and the relief clear in his voice makes my heart drop to the region of my stomach. I glance over at his face briefly and regret it immediately, because seeing his relieved expression only makes me feel worse about what I'm going to do. "Because there are some things that I really ought to be telling you, too, so I reckon now's as good of a time as any."

"Well, d'you mind if I go first?" I say, looking away from his face again. "Just because it's me who's been avoiding you."

"Knock yourself out," Fred says, and I think privately that that would be preferable to breaking up with him.

"Erm - well - I - you know, I never used to believe people when they said the best way to take off a bandaid was just to rip it off," I say, "that is - until I actually did it, because then, after the initial pain wore off, I basically saw the light. So, that's what I'm going to do now, and I don't know how much it'll help, or if it'll help at all, but - erm - I'm giving it a shot."

"Hazel?" Fred says, and he sounds worried now. "What is - ?"

I don't let him finish.

"I'm breaking up with you," I blurt out.

The words burst out of my mouth and then hang heavy in the air, heavy on my shoulders. Finally, I look at Fred's face and my heart drops at the look on his face. He looks as though he can't believe what he's heard. Like it can't be real. But it is, and God, I must be terrible to be doing this, but I'm doing this for him, so he can be happier, so why do I feel so terrible? Even though I like him and care about him as much as I do, shouldn't there be some feeling in my gut or my heart or something that confirms for me that I'm doing the right thing?

"Wha - what?" he finally manages to get out, looking at me with wide eyes.

I take a deep breath, before repeating myself. "I'm breaking up with you."

Somehow, it feels worse the second time, it's even harder to get out.

"Wha - why?" he says, still looking as though he can't believe what he's hearing. "I - I thought we were good, you and me. I knew something was up for you to be avoiding me, but - but why would you want to - why?"

"We were good, Fred," I say weakly. "But things - lots of terrible things - are happening, and I just don't think we can be together with all of it happening, and I think it's best if we - if we - for me not to be your girlfriend anymore. And - and I think it's best if I leave, so I'm - I'm going to leave now - "

I turn to go, mostly because of the tears welling up in my eyes, but Fred grabs my arm to stop me, and I stop dead in my tracks.

"Hazel," he says in a low, desperate voice, "please. There's more to this than you're telling me, and you said you'd be open about all of this, so tell me, please. Tell me what's changed, what's getting in the way of us, so I can do something about it, so I can fix it. Please, Hazel, please. I can't just let go of this, of you. At least tell me what's going on here."

His words seem to suffocate me, and his hand on my arm burns as though it's on fire. I take a deep breath, blinking back my tears. I make sure they're gone before turning to face him.

"There's nothing you can do," I tell him. "Unless you have a way of stopping Lord Voldemort in a quick, risk-free way, in which case, I'm all ears."

"What - what does You-Know-Who have to do with this?" Fred says, shaking his head and looking lost.

"Fred, I'm leaving soon," I say, looking at him earnestly. "And not just to Hogwarts, no, I'm going to try to stop the most powerful dark wizard of all time. I don't know when I'm going to be back, or even if I'm going to be back - "

"Hazel," he says, "don't. Please don't say that."

"You know it's true," I hiss. "Anything could happen, alright? Considering what I'm about to do and who I'm doing it with, it won't take long until things get very dangerous, okay? And you  _know_ that. You knew from the moment you found out that we're leaving. You can't promise me anything, and I can't promise you anything but that I'm going to try my very best to get us all out of this in one piece. And I do promise you that. But the operative word here is 'try.' There's nothing definite about this, nothing certain."

I pause for a moment, trying to find the right words, before continuing.

"Look, even if nothing happens to me, I'm not sure how long it'll be before I come back. I mean, this is Voldemort we're trying to defeat here. It could take years. I don't - it's not fair to you for you to have to be waiting for me when you don't know anything, when you don't know when I'm coming back, or even if I'm coming back. I don't want you to be hung up over me. You don't deserve that. What you do deserve is to get over me. Get over me and forget about me - "

"Hazel," he says urgently, "Hazel, no, please - "

" - and find somebody new, somebody nice and pretty that you can have a laugh with and don't have to worry about getting themselves in danger all the time," I continue, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Somebody who isn't as much trouble as me. That's what you deserve. Honestly, the reason you dated me is a bit beyond me, but it's not the point, the point is that now you have to - "

"Hazel, you're not breaking up with me - you can't - we can't - we're - " Fred is saying desperately, and my eyes flicker up to him again, furious and upset with myself and heartbroken because he's actually at a loss for words.

"Please, Fred," I say, shaking my head and smiling weakly, before looking away from him quickly, "it's best for you to just forget about me, with me leaving soon and everything. There's just - you can't wait on me when you don't know how long you'll have to wait, because it could be months, or years, or - or it could be forever, okay? I can't ask you to do that for me. I never could.  _Please_ , please just - "

Suddenly, he tilts my head forward with his fingers, forcing me to look up at him and the hurt expression on his face, and it's almost impossible to breathe properly.

"Six years," he says, uncharacteristically quietly. "Six years I've known you, Hazel. And in those six years... you can't imagine how you've made me feel, how you make me feel now, because if you did, you wouldn't be asking me to just get over you and forget about you, because you'd know it isn't an option for me. You'd know it's not even possible."

"And what if I make you wait another six years just to find out I'm dead?" I demand. "Or that I've been captured? Or - or - "

I stop suddenly, unable to continue listing all the things that could happen to me.

"And what if you don't?" he retorts. "What if you come back soon enough, safe and sound, and I've followed your advice and moved on? Then what happens?"

"If you're happy, then I'm happy," I say, though I think it might be clear that I'm lying through my teeth about that one. As usual, Fred sees right through me.

"You're lying," he says simply. "But even if it weren't... what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you just - just going to let go of me - of us - as if none of it ever happened?" he demands.

I hesitate for a moment too long.

"You're not!" Fred says, now looking angry. "How come I'm supposed to forget about it all and you're not?"

"Because it doesn't bloody matter if I do or not, alright?" I burst out. "With being on the run and trying to stop the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, my dating opportunities are going to be pretty low on the ground, and I'm not going to have many opportunities to forget about you, but that's the complete opposite of you. You're not going anywhere and you're young and funny and clever and good-looking and - and I don't want to hold you back, okay? I don't want you waiting on me, how many times do I have to tell you that? You deserve more than that."

"Hold me back?" Fred repeats incredulously. "Hazel, how could you possibly be holding me back when I don't want anybody else but you?"

"Yes, well, that's all easy to say while I'm still here, but what about when I've been gone for months and there's a pretty girl that's been visiting the shop lately?"

"Hazel, you don't get it, do you?" he insists, moving closer so that we're inches apart, and I want to move, but he's still forcing me to look up at him with his fingers, and even if he wasn't, I'm not sure if I'd move, anyway. "I would wait centuries for you, if that's what it took. Anything to be with you, d'you understand?  _Anything._ And I'm not going to pretend I feel the same way about someone else the way I feel about you, just because there's a chance you might - you might - well, you know," he says, his voice catching in his throat, and for a moment, he looks terribly frightened, to the extend that I feel a very unpleasant jolt in my stomach, "because there could be ten pretty girls visiting the shop everyday, they're still not going to mean to me what you do.

"And as for me deserving to find someone apparently better... that's just not true. There's nobody better than you, Hazel.  _Nobody_. The mere idea of replacing you with someone else is impossible to me, let alone actually doing it. You're more than what you say you are, especially to me. And as for the trouble... well, I wouldn't say you were trouble, but even if you are, if you haven't noticed, I've always kinda been into trouble," he says, and he moves his hands to pull me closer to him, his hands on my waist, and again, my body burns where he touches it. The ghost of his usual confident grin is on his face as he says it, and on a completely different day, I would've laughed. "Hazel, you're too good for everyone to me. Absolutely  _everyone_. You're always so kind and smart and funny and sweet and beautiful - you're so beautiful."

With that, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. Every sensible part of me is screaming at me that I shouldn't do this, that this will only make things more difficult when it comes time to actually leave him, but that part of me is drowned out by the part of me that desperately wants nothing more than him. I listen to the side of me that's less sensible, that's really downright stupid, and kiss him back fiercely, moving closer to him so that any space between us is closed. I run my hands through his hair, moving them down to his shoulders and up and down his arms, before wrapping them around his waist, tracing shapes on his back and moving them back up to his shoulders, desperately wanting to just touch him and feel him while I still can. One of the hands holding my face moves to my hair, playing with it with his fingers.

When we pull away, I don't open my eyes for several moments, because a part of me doesn't want it to be over. When I do open them, I find him looking at me intently, his gaze flickering from my eyes to my lips.

"So beautiful," he says, so quietly that I very nearly miss it, one of his hands moving to trace shapes on my back.

I look at him longingly for a few moments, the silence heavy in the air, and he really should not have kissed me, because I can hardly help myself now.

"God, Weasley, you're killing me," I say, pulling him back to me and kissing him again.

This kiss lasts much longer than the first, much slower and less needy than before, and it's with immense difficulty that I manage to snap out of the bliss of it all and pull away, taking a few steps away from him for good measure. The only problem with this is that the moment I'm no longer in his arms, I want nothing more than to jump back in them.

"Anything for you, Knight," he says, staring at me.

"And that's the problem," I insist. "It can't be like that, not anymore, and not for a while, it seems, because Voldemort isn't going anywhere and Harry needs my help."

"But we still don't have to break up," he says desperately, pleadingly.

"You - you're better off without me, Fred," I say.

"I think I'm the one who gets to decide who I'm better off with or without," Fred replies. "And I know for a fact that I'm not better off without you."

"Listen," I say desperately, needing him to understand. "I'm always doing things that aren't very safe, and soon I'm going to be on the run and trying to defeat Lord Voldemort once and for all. It's not an easy task, and it's not a safe one, either. I could be gone for years before coming back, or I could be killed, captured, anything. Anything could happen to me, and I know that kinda goes for everyone right now, but you and the others are a bit better off than I'll be. You worry about me a lot, I know you do, and this is going to be worse than anything I've ever done, and I don't want you waiting and worrying about me."

Fred is silent for an unbearably long time. I look from him, to the floor, to the ceiling, and back again, playing with my hands and wondering if it's evident that I'm distressed about this as I am.

"You know, I've always wanted to protect you," he says, looking me straight in the eye. "I know you didn't need me to protect you, you never have, but I've always wanted to be able to if you needed it. And sometimes I've been able to, and I'm glad to do it, but for the most part, I can't. And once you leave, I really won't be able to, and I could date a million different people and I'll still be worried and upset that I won't be able to do anything to help and protect you."

I stare at him in shock for a moment, before giving him a tiny smile and walking toward him.

"Fred, I don't want you to protect me," I say softly, taking his face in my hands. "I want you to protect yourself, that's all I want. I want you safe and happy. That's why I'm doing this. So you can be safe and happy. Because happy isn't waiting on a girl who might never come back to you."

"Hazel, there's so such thing as safe, not anymore," he insists. "As for happy, how am I supposed to be happy dating anybody else but you?"

"Well, if you listening to me and just forgot about me and moved on, you'd find it very easy," I say, struggling for composure.

"But I can't just forget about you when you're the most unforgettable person I've ever met," he says earnestly.

"Fred, you - you can't say stuff like this, you really can't," I say, and I look down at the ground, cursing myself for the ears prickling in my eyes. "Fred, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Any different circumstance and this wouldn't be happening but now, now... I can't - we can't - "

"Hazel," he says, taking his hands in mine and looking at me pleadingly. "Please, please, don't do this. Please, Hazel, I lo - "

"I'm sorry, Fred," I say, moving away from him once and for all and hoping he realises that I mean this. "I'm sorry, Fred, I'm sorry. I can't do it - I - I'm sorry."

With that, before he can stop me, I turn around and leave the room, walking away as fast as I can and not looking back. As I walk away, he doesn't follow after me.

Somewhere along the way, I realise I don't know where to go. Feeling lost, I decide to go outside into the back garden and hide away from the world, just long enough to get it together again.

When I've mad it to the landing of the staircase of the first floor, I bump into Ginny.

"Hey, Hazel - are you alright?" she says quickly, her cheerful greeting changing quickly into a concerned expression.

 _I broke up with Fred,_ I think.  _Fred, my now ex-boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend that I still have strong feelings for. I ended a relationship that I was almost obscenely happy in. I'm miserable and it's my fault but I know I did the right thing. I broke up with Fred._

"Yeah, fine," I say, smiling bracingly. "I just need to be alone for a bit, alright? Don't worry about it, I'll see you later."

I'm halfway down the stairs before she can respond. I throw myself into the back garden of the Burrow, breathing deeply and trying to do something about the misery that's filling me up and weighing me down. I walk around until I reach the point where the grass gets so long it reaches past my midthigh. I know it will be cut sometime soon for the wedding, but I'm glad that that time is not now, because when I lie down in the middle of the grass, I know I'm mostly obscured from the view of others and know that I'll be left alone, which is precisely what I want - no, that I need right now.

I look up at the sky, at what used to be bright blue but is now clouding over with dark, storm clouds, as though the sky has noticed me and has decided to reflect my mood. I look up at the sky, before squeezing my eyes shut to keep tears from falling, pressing my lips together to stop them from trembling, and feel grateful for the tall grass all around me. I know the last thing that anybody needs to see is the girl trying not to fall apart because she's miserable because she did the right thing.

 

***

 

Fred stood in Ginny's room for a long time, too shocked and numb about what had just happened to be able to even move. When he finally got himself to move, he walked slowly out of the room, leaving the door wide open, even though somewhere in the back of his mind, he was reminding himself that Ginny and Fleur alike got angry when the door was left open. He was thinking a million different things at once, and yet, he had no proper, coherent thoughts in his mind. Mostly, he was just reliving the image of Hazel's distressed, heartbroken face as she told him again and again that they had to break up for his own good.

 _For his own good._ Hazel was as brilliant as anyone, so he had no idea how she could think any of this could possibly be for his own good. He was miserable. He hardly knew what to do with himself and with his stupid heart, which felt heavier than a load of bricks in his chest. What good could possibly come out of this?

He walked over to his room, hoping that nobody would be in there. Along the way, he bumped into Ron, who looked at him oddly, concernedly.

"You alright, Fred?" he says, his brown furrowed.

 _Hazel broke up with me,_ he thinks.  _Hazel, my girlfriend - ex-girlfriend. Hazel, who I'm madly in love with. She broke up with me and I'm a bloody mess and I don't know what to do with myself. Hazel broke up with me._

But he couldn't say that out loud, at least not yet. Saying it aloud would make it real, and he desperately needed it to all be fake, some terrible dream that he's managed to come up with out of fear of losing her.

"Fine," he said instead, and when Ron looked like he's going to say more, he added, "Nose out, Ron."

Before Ron could protest further, Fred moved along, not stopping until he reached his room, which was thankfully empty. He shuffled forward until he reached his bed, throwing himself onto it and looking up at the ceiling above him. All he could do was replay the conversation over and over again in his head.

She broke up with him, but not because she didn't like him, but because she liked him too much to still be with him? To even risk him being heartbroken? But he was heartbroken now, wasn't he? He was hung up over her whether they were together or not, so what could breaking up really do?

 _A whole lot, apparently, according to her,_ he thought.

Why couldn't she see she was worth the risk? That she was worth every risk? That he was willing to wait a thousand years and longer for her? How could she think that he could just go and forget all about her and their relationship as though it had never happened? The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed.

He would have to show her that he couldn't just let go. That they didn't  _have_ to let go. She had to see. After all, if this war was teaching him anything, it was to fight for what and who you love, no matter how hard it is, no matter how painful, until the very end. And if he couldn't fight for Hazel, who he was  _in love with_ , for whom or what could he fight?


	7. The Wedding Planner

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Seven: The Wedding Planner**

 

As it turns out, Harry does get confronted by Mrs. Weasley. The end result being that she keeps Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I so busy with preparations for the wedding that we hardly have time to think. The kindest explanation for this type of behaviour would be that she wants to distract us from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of our recent journeys. However, it doesn't take long for me to suspect her of a different motive, especially after two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of colour-matching favours, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley with the cooking. Especially after I realise that all her tasks keep Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I from being alone with each other. I haven't spoken to the three of them alone since the night of Harry's arrival, when he told us about Voldemort torturing Ollivander.

Of course, it's an awful inconvenience to not be able to talk to them so much, especially about something so important, but secretly, I am grateful, if only for another reason. I'm being kept so busy that I don't even have the time to be heartbroken over Fred. Even if we're in the room together, I'm usually so concentrated on one thing or another that it's almost easy to pretend that there's nothing wrong. And at the end of the day, I'm so exhausted that I fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow, which saves me from staying awake all night thinking about him miserably. In a way, Mrs. Weasley really is doing me a favour.

We're often joined by members of the Order for dinner now, since the Burrow has replaced Grimmauld Place as the Order's headquarters. After all, since Dumbledore had died, everybody to whom Dumbledore had confided Grimmauld Place's location became a Secret-Keeper. As that makes twenty Secret-Keepers and, even with the curses that Mad-Eye Moody made against Snape in case he tried to return to Grimmauld Place or tell other Death Eaters of its location work, nothing can be certain, so we decided it'd be mad to continue using Grimmauld Place with such shaky protection.

The kitchen tends to be so crowded that it becomes difficult to manoeuvre knives and forks. Being so close to people made me worry about sitting next to Fred, but I've managed to avoid it. After all, more people at the table means more people that I can put between me and him.

"No news about Mad-Eye?" Harry asks Bill one evening.

"Nothing," he replies.

We haven't been able to have a funeral for Mad-Eye, because his body hasn't been found yet. It's difficult to figure out where he might have fallen, due to the darkness and the confusion from the battle.

"The  _Daily Prophet_ hasn't said anything about him dying or about finding the body," Bill continues. "But that doesn't mean much. The  _Prophet's_ been keeping a lot quiet these days."

"And they still haven't called a hearing about all the underage magic I used escaping the Death Eaters?" Harry asks. When Mr. Weasley shook his head, he adds, "Because they know I had no choice or because they don't want me to tell the world that Voldemort attacked me?"

"The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn't want to admit that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, or that Azkaban's seen a mass breakout."

I shake my head, unable to help feeling angry. Fudge and Scrimgeour, they're not so different after all. They'll both have everyone killed before they admit they're not as great as they like to think they are.

"Yeah, why tell the public the truth?" Harry says angrily.

"Is anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to him?" Ron demands.

"Of course, Ron, but people are terrified," Mr. Weasley replies, "terrified that they'll be the next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumours going around: I for one don't believe that the Muggle Studies teacher resigned. She hasn't been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day; I just hope he's working on a plan."

There's a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magics the empty plates onto the work surface and serves apple tart.

"We must decide 'ow you will be disguised, 'Arry," Fleur announces, once everyone has pudding. "For ze wedding," she adds, when Harry looks lost. "Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip once they 'ave 'ad champagne."

Something about this makes me think that Fleur still suspects that it was Hagrid that leaked the information about the Seven Potters to the Death Eaters.

"Yes, very good point," Mrs. Weasley says from the top of the table, spectacles perched on the edge of her nose, scanning an immense list of tasks to do that she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. "Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?"

"Why?" Ron demands, glaring at his mother. "Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry and I like it how it is!"

"We are holding your brother's wedding here in a few days' time, young man - "

"And are they getting married in my bedroom?" Ron retorts. "No! So why in the name of Merlin's saggy left - "

"Don't talk to your mother like that," Mr. Weasley says firmly. "And do as you're told."

Ron scowls at the both of his parents, and attacks the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.

"I can help, some of it's my mess," Harry points out, but Mrs. Weasley cuts across him.

"No, Harry, dear, I'd much rather that you help Arthur with the chickens, and Hermione, I'd be ever so grateful if you'd change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they're arriving tomorrow morning at eleven."

I notice that Mrs. Weasley hasn't mentioned me yet, and momentarily think that I'll be in the clear, if only for a time, to find a way to talk to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. But then my hopes are dashed when Mrs. Weasley adds, "Oh, and Hazel, if you could go in with Fred and help him clean up his and George's room. Merlin knows it's a nightmare there, and if anyone else besides those two knows how to get around that mess, it's you. Besides, I'm not sure if he'll get anything done if someone isn't there to make sure."

I'm silent for a moment. Then I realise that I have to accept, because if I refuse, chances are I'll have to explain to Mrs. Weasley in front of everyone that I broke up with her son and therefore really don't think I can stand to be alone with him in his room for an extended period of tie, and that's not really something I want to do. The presence of Bill and Fleur somehow makes this idea even more unbearable. Maybe because Fleur's better than I am, sticking with Bill no matter what? I don't know, and it's not something I want to think about, especially now.

I'm just about to agree, when Fred blurts out, "Wouldn't it make more sense to have George do it? I mean, it's his room, not Hazel's. It's partly his mess, too."

I can't tell if that's because he doesn't want to see me or because he knows I wouldn't be okay with it, but either I'm surprised, even a I look over at Mrs. Weasley apprehensively.

"Since when do you complain about extra alone time with Hazel, Freddie?" George says jokingly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Some laugh, and I might've done the same in a different time. Now all I can do is frown, because it dawns on me that Fred hasn't told George that we've broken up. George wouldn't say something like that if he knew we weren't together anymore. But I suppose I can't judge Fred for it. I haven't told anyone, either.

Mrs. Weasley gives him a disapproving look, before pointedly saying. "George still has a lot to do in the kitchen before he can do anything else."

"Well, I suppose someone's got to do it," I say bracingly, forcing an amused smile. "I'll be glad to, Mrs. Weasley."

"I'm sure you will," George says sarcastically, grinning.

I look over at Fred for a split second, and we lock eyes momentarily, before I look away quickly. This won't be good.

 

***

 

Considering how messy I know Fred and George's room can get, what I'm greeted with when Fred and I walk into the room after dinner isn't bad at all. It'll take a while to clean, but not as long as it would've taken a few years ago, probably partly because they haven't used the room in so long and are just setting in again. Regardless, the fact of the matter is that the moment I walk into the room, I want to bolt out again, and any amount of alone time with him feels like too much, and it should be impossible to feel this vulnerable around someone I always went to for comfort and safety.

Fred looks like he's about to close the door, but then decides against it and leaves it wide open. I had been hoping he would do that, but now that it's happened, it's not quite as much of a relief that I had hoped it would be.

"Well," I say bracingly, my voice filling the silent room in a way that I don't quite like, "this shouldn't be too bad. We'll get this done in no time, I think. Just as long as we deal with all the more dangerous stuff first."

We set to work on the boxes around the room, looking through them and clearing them away. The silence is tense, and I can hardly stand to look at him for longer than a few seconds at a time, as though looking at him is like looking at the sun. Fred examines a few of them closely, before setting them aside, clearly thinking that some of the products inside might be able to be developed and then sold at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Soon, I follow suit, setting aside products I think might be useful at the shop. He notices after a moment, and we lock eyes. He smiles at me, and I return it weakly, before looking away quickly.

"You haven't told George," I say. It's meant to come out as a question, but I'm so certain of it that it comes out as a statement. I hate bringing it up over and over again, but I think it serves as a good reminder to the both of us that we're not together anymore, more separation that Fred needs to get over me.

"No," he says.

"Why not?"

"I dunno," he admits. "I can barely explain it to myself. I haven't talked about it with anyone except for - well, you, I guess. Have you?"

My shoulders slump slightly, and I let out a sigh.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I - I dunno," I say. "I suppose it just makes it all so much more - "

"Real?" Fred cuts in quickly.

I don't say anything, because that was what exactly what I was going to say before I cut myself off. I don't want for it to sink in, not when I still have to see him every day. I don't want to have to come to terms with it quite yet.

"It is real," I say. "Of course this is really real."

"It doesn't feel like it, though, does it?" he says, and I can feel him turning to look at me, but I don't do the same. "Because we - what we have - that's realer than the excuses you make for us not being able to be together, isn't it?"

I'm silent for a long time, trying to control my heartbeat and my more shallow breath. When I finally think I'm calm enough, I reply to him.

"They're not excuses, they're facts," I say as steadily as I can. There's a pause, in which he says nothing, so I add, "We should get back to cleaning. Get this done."

He says nothing, but when I hear noises of shuffling again I know he's gotten back to work, and I do the same, letting out a small sigh. Soon, we finish going through and clearing away the boxes and get started on cleaning the rest of his room. Neither of us talk, but it's more tense than ever, and I glance at him more than I know I should, more than I can excuse and call innocent. I want nothing more than to take it all back, to have him forgive me for the whole thing and pretend it never happened, but I know I can't, so I say nothing. I remind myself of how much happier he'll be once he's moved on from me.

_Happier without you._

I shake my head, as though to clear my head from thoughts like that. After all, this isn't about me and my happiness. It's about his. If it was about me, I'd never break up with him.

When we finally finish, we stand looking at each other from other sides of the room, not sure of what to do now. I avoid looking him in the eyes, opting to look at the floor instead.

"You know," Fred says, "it's just occurred to me we could've finished this ages ago if we'd used magic. Then again, I've always been rubbish at all the more domestic spells."

All I do is smile, not quite trusting myself to speak.

"C'mon, Hazel," he says, rather desperately. "Even broken-up couples talk to each other sometimes."

"Yeah, sometimes," I breathe. "And even then, I don't reckon they're anything like us, in a situation like ours."

"And what are we like, Hazel? What situation are we in?" he asks, walking closer towards me.

"Fred, please don't make me do this."

"I still don't understand," he says, still walking closer towards me. "Why you broke up with me, I mean. And I need to know how exactly I can go about getting you back."

" _Fred -_ " I say, but then I stop, because he's right in front of me, and I wonder if I had backed up, because my back is against the wall and I don't remember that always being the case, but God, he's right there, and I don't know how I'm even managing to keep it somewhat together.

"Go on," he says in a very low voice, looking me in the eyes, and for once, I can't look away.

For a moment, everything seems still, and nothing else seems to exist. And it becomes more evident to me than ever how much I want to be with him, but I can't, I know I can't, so why does it all still hurt so much? Why do I still want him so badly? His hands move to my waist, moving them up and down slowly, gently, and his face moves closer to mine, and it occurs to me that he's going to kiss me, and I know he can't do that, but I still want him to do it. I tilt my head closer to him in spite of myself, in spite of everything I've insisted both to him and myself.

There's a loud noise from outside, the sound of something crashing, and Mrs. Weasley yelling, "FOR MERLIN'S SAKE, GEORGE, THIS IS WHY YOU DON'T USE MAGIC FOR EVERYTHING!"

We both jump, looking away out the door, caught off guard. When the shock wears off, we slowly look back at each other, as close as ever, his hands still on my waist, but the moment's over. We both know it is. The crash has allowed me to think more clearly.

"I should go," I breathe out, much more unsteadily than I would like, but it's something. "So much to do, clearly."

"Yeah," he says, taking a step back. "Okay."

I linger for just a moment longer, before walking out of the room quickly. I don't go down to the kitchen, where the crash undoubtedly occurred. Instead, I go up to Ron's bedroom, to find Harry, Ron, and Hermione all there. Harry is sitting on his camp bed, Ron is lying on his camp bed, and Hermione is sitting in the corner with her fluffy, ginger cat, Crookshanks at her feet, sorting through two enormous piles of books, clearly deciding which books to take with her when we leave. I've already sorted through my books, deciding not to take too much. Either way, I had figured, whatever I don't take Hermione probably will.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm doing it - oh, it's just you," Ron say in relief, looking at me, having jumped out of his camp bed, thinking that it was Mrs. Weasley.

"Just me," I agree.

"Hi," Harry and Hermione say, as I sit on the foot of Ron's bed.

"And how did you lot manage to get away?" I ask.

"Oh, Ron's mum forgot that she asked me and Ginny to change the sheets yesterday," Hermione says matter-of-factly, throwing  _Numerology and Grammatica_ into one pile and  _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ into the other.

"And there wasn't really much to do with the chickens after all," Harry adds. "You?"

"Cleaning Fred and George's room didn't take nearly as long as I thought - and as long as Mrs. Weasley probably hoped," I reply shortly.

"What, and you and Fred didn't spend hours snogging afterwards?" Ron says, raising his eyebrows at me.

"Ha ha," I say, not looking at anybody.

"Anyway, we were just talking about Mad-Eye," Hermione says, looking at me with her brow furrowed.

"Yeah, I reckon he might have survived," Ron adds.

"Bill and Hazel both saw him get hit with the Killing Curse," Harry says.

"Yeah, but - well, no offence, obviously," Ron says, looking over at me, "but you two were under attack, too. How can either of you be sure of what you saw?"

I say nothing, suddenly going very quiet. I was admittedly looking for distraction from Fred, but talking about Mad-Eye's death was the last form of distraction I wanted. It's already difficult enough to get the image of his lifeless body falling off his broom out of my head.

"Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet," Hermione says, now weighing  _Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland_ in her hands.

"He could have used a Shield Charm - "

"Hazel and Bill said his wand was blasted out of his hand," Harry says.

"Well, alright, if you want him to bed," Ron says grumpily, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

"Of course we don't want him to be dead!" Hermione says, shocked. "It's dreadful that he's dead! But we're being realistic!"

There's a silence, as I look over at Ron. Suddenly, I say, "Look, Ron. There might have been confusion with the battle and the darkness and all, but I know what I saw. And I saw and heard Voldemort say the curse, I saw it hit Mad-Eye, I saw his wand get blasted out of his hand, and I saw him fall what must have been a thousand feet. I'd give anything for it to be different, for it to have missed or to save him in some way, but there's nothing for it. He;s dead." I swallow, trying to get the terrible, metallic taste out of my mouth. "He's dead."

There's another long silence at my words, before Ron says wisely, "The Death Eaters probably tidied themselves up afterwards, that's why no one's found him."

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "Like Barty Crouch, turning into a bone and buried in Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him - "

"Don't!" Hermione squeals, and I look over just in time to see her burst into tears over a copy of  _Spellman's Syllabary_.

"Oh, no," Harry says, struggling to get off of the old camp bed. "Hermione, I wasn't trying to - "

But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounds off the bed and gets there first. One arm around Hermione, he digs his hand in his jean pocket and retrieves a revolting-looking handkerchief that he'd used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily puling out his wand, he points it at the handkerchief and says, " _Tergeo!_ "

The spell gets rid of most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, he hands the slightly smoking handkerchief to the sobbing Hermione.

I look over at Harry, who gives me a helpless sort of look, telling me wordlessly that he didn't mean to upset anybody with it. I just shrug, because I know that, but I also know he probably had a point. All I can think about is Moody who had seemed so strong and unbreakable, transfigured into some common, everyday object and then stuffed aside somewhere like it's nothing. Like his life meant nothing. It's all I can do not to be sick.

"Oh... thanks, Ron... I'm sorry.." Hermione blows her nose and hiccups. "It's just so awful, isn't it? R-Right after Dumbledore... I j-just never imagined Moody dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!"

"Yeah, I know," Ron agrees, giving her shoulders a small squeeze. "But you know what he'd say if he was still here?"

"C-Constant vigilance," Hermione replies, mopping up her eyes.

"That's right," Ron nods. "He'd tell us to learn from what's happened to him. And what I've learned is not to trust that cowardly little git, Mundungus."

Hermione lets out a shaky laugh and leans forward to grab two more books. A second later, Ron snatches his arm back from around her shoulders, since she has dropped  _The Monster Book of Monsters_ on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snaps viciously at Ron's ankle.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Hermione cries, as I manage to wrench the book away and keep it restrained while Harry reties it shut.

"What are you doing with all these books, anyway?" Ron demands, limping back to his bed.

"Just trying to decide which ones to take with me," Hermione replies. "You know, when we're looking for Horcruxes."

"Oh, right, of course," Ron says, clapping his hand to his forehead. "I forgot we're going to be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile libary."

"Ha ha," Hermione says, looking at  _Spellman's Syllabary._ "I wonder... will we need to translate runes? It's possible... we better take it, to be safe."

She drops the syllabary into the larger of the two piles and picks up  _Hogwarts, A History_. I already know that she's going to take it with her.

"Listen," Harry says suddenly, sitting up straight.

I already know what he's about to say, and from one look at Ron and Hermione, they do, to. We look at him with mixed expressions of defiance and resignation.

"I know you said after Dumbledore's funeral that you wanted to come with me," Harry begins.

"Here he goes," Ron rolls his eyes.

"As we knew he would," Hermione sighs, returning to her books. "You know, I think I will take  _Hogwarts, A History_. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think it'll feel right to not have it with me - "

"Listen!" Harry says.

"No, Harry, you listen," Hermione says. "We're coming with you. That was decided months ago - years, really."

"But - " Harry says.

"Shut up," Ron advises him.

" - are you sure you've thought this through?" Harry persists.

I snap up to look at him, my eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well, let's see, shall we?" I say fiercely. "I wiped my aunt, uncle, and cousin's memories and sent them to Ireland under different identities so that the Death Eaters don't find them and torture them for information - not that they have any - and you think that'd be a good thing, since they were so terrible to me, but believe it or not, it actually really isn't much of an improvement to have your only living relatives go from hating you to not knowing you exist, especially considering me and Candy were finally getting along. We'e spent days packing so we can leave at a moment's notice, which, for the record, does take some surprisingly difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Moody's whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under everyone's nose. We've also spent every moment we can looking up Horcruxes and finding out more about them, especially how to destroy them, so that we don't just get stuck after we find one. And - and I've broken up with Fred, so that he can move on from me, so if I happen to die or something, he won't be as upset by it."

There's a surprised silence, as I hadn't told anyone that I'd broken up with Fred.

"I - I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced that they're really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done," Hermione adds. "That's to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me - or you, because unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you.

"Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don't - well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know they've got a daughter, see."

Hermione's eyes are swimming with tears again. Ron gets back off the bed, putting his arm around her once more, and frowns at Harry, as though reprimanding him for his lack of tact.

 _It really is very serious when Ron's scolding anybody for not having tact,_ I think.

"I - sorry - I didn't - "

"Didn't realise Ron, Hazel, and I knew perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you've done."

"Nah, he's just eaten."

"Go on, he needs to know!"

"Oh, alright," Ron says. "Harry, come here."

For the second time, Ron withdraws his arm from around her and stumps over to the door.

"C'mon."

"Why?" Harry asks, walking over to the door, but Ron doesn't reply, simply leading the way out the door.

Hermione and I stay where we are, knowing Ron's going to show Harry the ghoul. The ghoul in the Weasley household, who before did really nothing other than occasionally disrupt the nightly silence, has been transfigured to have red hair and be covered in pustules, so that when people come looking for Ron once we've left, it'll just look like he's stayed home because he's bedridden with Splattergroit, a deadly illness Ron's been accused of having before. Not only will it explain Ron's absence from Hogwarts so that Voldemort and the Death Eaters don't look into him too hard, but since Splattergroit is so contagious, nobody will want to go near him, so it's unlikely anyone will realise that it's actually a ghoul and not the real Ron Weasley.

"You really broke up with Fred?" Hermione asks, continuing to sort through books.

I just nod, letting out a sigh.

"Why didn't you tell me - or anyone else, for that matter?"

"I dunno," I say, stretching out on Ron's bed in his absence. "I just - I suppose I didn't want to make it more..." I trail off, before facing the facts and saying, "real."

"How did he take it?"

"Not well," I admit.  _But neither did I, really,_ I think. "But he'll be fine. It's for his own good. Well, that's what I'm hoping and working for. Otherwise this is all rather redundant."

Hermione's about to speak again, but Harry and Ron return to the room.

"Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come down here and live in my room," Ron's explaining to Harry. "I think he's really looking forward to it - well, it's hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool - but he nods a lot whenever you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with Splattergroit. Good, eh?"

Harry merely looks at him in confusion.

"It is!" Ron says, frustrated that Harry hasn't grasped the brilliance of this plan. "Look, when we don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think that Hermione, Hazel, and I have gone with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters'll go straight to our families to see if they have any information."

"But hopefully it'll look like I've gone away with Mum and Dad: there's a lot of talk of Muggle-borns going into hiding at the moment," Hermione says.

"It'll be hard for it to look like I'm anywhere else but with you, but it's easy for me to stay under the radar regardless, because they can't exactly go to the Martins for information anymore, can they?" I say.

"But we can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their jobs," Ron continues. "So we're going to put out this story that I'm seriously ill with Splattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes to investigate, all Mum and Dad have to do is show them the ghoul on my bed. Splattergroit's really contagious, too, so they're not going to want to come near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, because apparently you can't once the fungus has spread to your uvula."

"And your mum and dad are in on this plan?" Harry asks.

"Dad is," Ron replies. "He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum... well, you've seen what she's like. She won't accept that we're going until we're gone."

There's silence in the room, only broken by gentle thuds as Hermione continues to throw books into one pile or the other. I watch her as she does, but I'm hardly paying attention, my mind in another room, alone with someone I should not be daydreaming about right now...

Through the silence comes the sound of Mrs. Weasley shouting from four floors below.

"Ginny's probably left a speck of dust on the poxy napkin ring," Ron says. "I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding."

"Fleur's sister is a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she's too young to come on her own," Hermione says, poring indecisively over  _Break with a Banshee_.

"Well, guests aren't going to help Mum's stress levels," Ron says.

"What we really need to decide," Hermione says, tossing  _Defensive Magical Theory_ into the bin without a second glance and picking up  _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ , "is where we're going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric's Hollow first, Harry, and I understand that, but... well... shouldn't we make the Horcruxes our top priority?"

"If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I'd agree with you," Harry replies.

"I don't think we shouldn't go, but, Harry, don't you think it's very likely hat Voldemort's keeping a watch on Godric's Hollow?" I say. "Wouldn't he expect you to go back and see your parents' graves once you're free to go whenever you like?"

Harry doesn't say anything to this.

"This R.A.B. person," Ron says suddenly, apparently following his own train of thought. "You know, the one who stole the real locket?"

Hermione nods.

"He said in his note that he was going to destroy it, didn't he?"

Harry drags his trunk towards him and pulls out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.'s note is still folded.

"'I have found the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can,'" Harry reads aloud.

"Well, what if he did finish it off?" Ron says.

"Or she," Hermione points out.

"Whichever," Ron says. "It'd be one less for us to do!"

"Either way, we'd still have to find some way to trace the locket," I point out. "So we can know whether it's been destroyed or not."

"And once we get hold of one, how do you destroy a Horcrux?" Ron asks.

"Well," Hermione says, "Hazel and I have been researching that."

"How?" Harry asks. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library?"

Right you are, Harry, there aren't. So it's a good thing we got them from Dumbledore's office.

"There weren't," Hermione says, turning pink. "Dumbledore removed them all, but - but he didn't destroy them."

Ron sits up straight, wide-eyed.

"How in the name of Merlin's pants did you manage to get your hands on those books?"

"It - it wasn't stealing!" Hermione says, looking around desperately. "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn't want anybody to get to them, I'm sure he would've made it harder - "

"Get to the point!"

"Look," I say with a hint of impatience, sitting up straighter, "I did a Summoning Charm - you know, as in  _Accio_. And they zoomed out of Dumbledore's office window right into our dormitory."

"But when did you do this?" Harry asks, looking both incredulous and impressed.

"Just after the funeral," I reply. "Right after we agreed we'd leave school and go Horcrux hunting. When we went back upstairs to get our stuff, Hermione pointed out that the more we knew about them, the easier it'd be, and he suggested that we try Summoning them, and there was no one else in there, so I have it a shot and... well, it worked. They flew straight in through the room and we packed them."

"I can't believe Dumbledore would've been angry," Hermione adds, quickly and imploringly, "it's not as if we're going to be using the information to make a Horcrux, is it?"

"Do you see us complaining?" Ron says. "Where are these books, anyway?"

Hermione rummages for a moment and then extracts a large volume from the pile, bound in faded black leather. I recognise it as  _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ and feel about as nauseated as Hermione looks.

"This gives explicit instructions about how to make a Horcrux.  _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ \- it's a horrible book, awful really, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library... if it wasn't until after he became Headmaster, then Voldemort could've gotten all the information he needed just from this book."

"We did he have to ask Slughorn, then, if he'd already read that?" Ron asks.

"He only approached Slughorn to ask what would happen if you split your soul in seven," Harry says. "Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he went to Slughorn. I think you might be right, Hermione, that easily could've been where Voldemort got the information."

"And the more I read about them," Hermione says, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. The book warns about how unstable you make your soul by ripping it apart, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"

I suppose that explains how horrible Voldemort became, really.

"Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?" Ron says.

"Yes," I say, nodding. "But it's extremely painful."

"Why? How would you do it?" Harry asks.

"Remorse," I reply. "You've got to really feel and really regret what you've done. There's a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. It doesn't really seem like the kind of thing Voldemort would do, does it?"

"No," Ron agrees. "So does it say how you can destroy one in that book?"

"Yes," Hermione says, turning the fragile pages as though examining rotting entrails, "because it warns Dark wizards how strong you have to make your enchantments on them. From everything I've read, what Harry did to Riddle's diary seems to be the most foolproof way of doing it."

"What, stabbing it with a Basilisk fang?" Harry says.

"Oh, well, lucky we have such a large supply of Basilisk fangs, then," Ron says. "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

"It doesn't have to be a Basilisk fang," Hermione says patiently. "It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can't just repair itself. That's a problem we're going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux don't do the trick. You've got to put it beyond magical repair."

"But even if we wreck the thing it lives in," Ron says, "why can't the bit of soul just go and live inside something else?"

"Because a Horcrux is the exact opposite of a human being."

When Harry and Ron look thoroughly confused, I elaborate quickly, "Look, Ron, if I were to pick up a sword and stab you right now, I wouldn't do anything to your soul at all."

"Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure," Ron says. Harry laughs. I smile slightly.

"It should, actually! But the point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul survives, untouched," I say. "But it's the other way around with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside of it depends on its container, its enchanted body, really, for survival. It can't exist without it."

"The diary sort of died when I stabbed it," Harry says.

"And once the diary with properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped inside of it could no longer exist," Hermione says with a nod. "Ginny tried to flush it away, but obviously it just came back good as new."

"Hang on," Ron says, frowning. "The bit of soul in the diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

"If the magical container is still intact, then the bit of soul inside of it can go in and out of someone if they get too close to it. And I don't mean holding onto it too long, it's got nothing to do with touching it," I add, before Ron can ask. "I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself vulnerable to it. You're in trouble if you become too fond or dependent on a Horcrux."

"I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?" Harry says. "Why didn't I ask him? I never really..."

He trails off, but nobody presses him further. The silence is shattered as the bedroom door flies open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieks and drops  _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ ; Crookshanks streaks under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron jumps off the bed, skids on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacks his head on the opposite wall; and Harry and I instinctively dive for wands only to find Mrs. Weasley standing there, her hair dishevelled and her face contorted with rage.

"I'm so sorry to break up this cosy little gathering," she says, her voice trembling. "I'm sure you all need your rest... but there are wedding presents stacked in my bedroom and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help..."

"Oh, yes," Hermione says, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet and sent books flying in every direction, "we will... sorry..."

With an anguished look at Harry, Ron, and I, she hurries out of the room after Mrs. Weasley.

"It's like being a house-elf," Ron complains, massaging his head as he, Harry, and I follow Hermione out of the room. "Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding is over, the happier I'll be."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "then we'll have nothing to do but find Horcruxes. It'll be like a holiday, won't it?"

Ron and I laugh, but stop short at the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for us in Mrs. Weasley's bedroom.

 

***

 

The Delacours arrive the following morning at eleven o'clock. At this point, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and I are all feeling rather resentful towards Fleur's family. And it's with ill grace that Ron stumps back upstairs to put on matching socks and Harry gives another vain attempt to flatten his hair. Once we've all been deemed presentable enough, we troop outside into the sunny backyard to greet the new guests.

I've never seen the place look so tidy. The rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually litter the steps up to the back door have been replaced by Flutterby bushes, standing on either side of the door in large pots. Though there is no breeze, the leaves wave lazily, giving an attractive rippling effect. The chickens have been shut away, the yard swept, and the nearby garden has been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up, though I find that it looks rather forlorn without the usual contingent of gnomes, having always preferred the garden in its overgrown state.

I've lost count of how many protective enchantments have been put up on the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry. All I know for sure is that it's now impossible for people to travel by magic directly into the place. Which is why Mr. Weasley has gone to the top of a nearby hill to greet the Delacours, where they will be arriving by Portkey. The first sound of their approach is an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turns out to be Mr. Weasley, who appears at the gate a moment later, laden with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde-haired woman in long, leaf-green robes, clearly Fleur's mother.

"Maman!" Fleur cries, rushing to embrace her. "Papa!"

Monsieur Delacour is not quite as attractive as his wife; he's a head shorter with a little, pointed black beard. However, he appears to be good-natured. Bouncing towards Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kisses her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.

"You 'ave gone to so much trouble," he says in a deep voice. "Fleur tells me you 'ave been working very hard."

"Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" Mrs. Weasley trills. "No trouble at all!"

Ron relieves his feeling by aiming a kick at a gnome who is peering from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.

"Dear lady!" Monsieur Delacour says, still holding Mrs. Weasley's hands with his own two plump ones and beaming. "We are most honoured at the approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline."

Madame Delacour glides over ( _How can someone be so graceful?_ I think, trying not to feel too jealous) and stoops to kiss Mrs. Weasley, too.

"Enchanté," she says. "Your 'usband 'as been telling us such amusing stories!"

Mr. Weasley gives a maniacal laugh. Mrs. Weasley throws him a look, causing him to go silent and assume an expression more appropriate to being at the sickbed of a close friend.

"And, of course, you 'ave met my little daughter, Gabrielle!" says Monsieur Delacour.

Gabrielle is Fleur in miniature; eleven years-old, with waist length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gives Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile and hugs her, then gives Harry a glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Clearly, she hasn't forgotten the time Harry saved her in the Triwizard Tournament. Ginny clears her throat loudly. I try very hard not to burst out laughing.

"Well, do come in!" Mrs. Weasley says, ushering the Delacours inside, with many, "No, please!"s and "After your!"s and "Not at all!"s.

The Delacours, it soon turns out, are actually very helpful, pleasant guests, which makes it difficult to resent them still.  They're pleased with everything and are keen to assist with preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour declares that everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids shoes are "charmant!" Madame Delacour is extremely skilled in household spells and has the oven properly cleaned in a heartbeat. Gabrielle follows her older sister around, trying to assist in any way she can and chatting away in rapid French, making me wish I understood more than a few words here and there.

The downside, however, is that the Burrow simply wasn't built to accommodate so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour's protests and insisting they sleep in their bedroom. Gabrielle is sleeping with Fleur in Percy's old room, and Bill would be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once he arrives from Romania. Opportunities to make plans together become virtually nonexistent, to the extent that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I take to volunteering to feed the chickens in an attempt to get out of the overcrowded house.

"But she still won't leave us alone!" Ron complains, as our second attempt at meeting in the yard is foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley, carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms.

"Oh, good, you've fed the chickens," she calls as she approaches us. "We'd better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow... to put up the tent for the wedding," she elaborates, pausing to lean against the hen-house. She looks exhausted. "Millamant's Magical Marquees... they're very good... Bill's escorting them... you'd better stay inside while they're there, Harry. I must say, it does over-complicate things to organise a wedding with all these security spells around the place."

"I'm sorry," Harry says humbly.

"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" Mrs. Weasley says at once. "I didn't mean - well, your safety's much more important! Actually, I've been wanting to ask you how you want to celebrate your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it's an important day..."

"I don't want a fuss," he says quickly, clearly not wanting to put any additional strain on her or any of the other Weasleys. "Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine... it's the day before the wedding..."

"Oh, well, if you're sure, dear. I'll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?"

"That'd be great," Harry says. "But please don't go to a lot of trouble."

"Not at all, not at all... it's not trouble..."

She gives him a long, searching look, smiles a little sadly, then gets up and walks away. I watch her as she goes, and all at once, feel a great wave of guilt over all the pain and worry we'll soon be causing her.


	8. The Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Eight: The Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore**

 

I'm running. I'm not sure where I am, or where exactly I'm headed, but I know I have to reach something, someone. I become more desperate to reach them with each passing second, speeding up more and more. I'm not sure exactly where I am, but with its wide corridors and stone walls, it feels a lot like Hogwarts, though something feels off. It feels cold, as though nobody has been here for years and years.

I'm trying to reach somebody, but the place seems abandoned, so I don't know why I think I'm going to find anybody here, especially that particular person. But something is telling me that person draws closer to me with each step, so I speed up even more. I know I'm right when I turn a corner and almost bump right into that person.

I know who it is immediately. I don't know how, since I only see the tall, stocky frame, the red hair, but I'm certain of it.

"Fred!" I burst out, smiling.

He turns around and grins back at me, "Knight."

I fling my arms around him and kiss him. He kisses me back, wrapping his arms around my waist and smiling into it. As I pull him closer to me, I think that I wouldn't mind if we could be like this forever.

"I've been looking for you," I tell him when we pull away, because it becomes clear to me that he was who I had been looking for all this time.

"I know," he replies confidently, surprising me.

"You do?" I say, frowning slightly. "How?"

"Had a feeling," he says, shrugging and smiling, though something feels different about his smile now. "I would've looked for you, too, but I wanted to leave you to it."

"What d'you mean?" I ask. "Why?"

"I wanted to have you find me," he replies, stepping closer to me. He backs me up until I'm against the wall and I can hardly breathe, staring up at him, "so that when you did, you'd have to admit to yourself that I'm what you want."

" _Fred_ ," I say weakly, "we - I really don't think - we shouldn't - "

"Do you want me?" he asks, looking down at me. When I say nothing, just looking up at him, he says again, "Do you?"

"I - well, yes, I do, but - but we can't - there's no point of doing anything with it, you need to move on from me," I stutter.

He leans down, taking my face in his hands, and kissing me. He does it gently, as though we have all the time in the world, but something about it feels different from before, as though he's not really here.

"Hazel," he murmurs when he pulls away, keeping his face close to mine.

"Fred," I say, wanting to say something to make this all better, but what could I possibly do?

"Hazel," he says again, taking a step away from me, and he looks at me differently now, as though he doesn't even know me.

"Fred," I say, but it feels like he's too far to reach anymore.

"Hazel," he says, his voice muffled, as though speaking underwater.

"Fred!" I say, almost shouting, but I can hardly hear my voice in my own ears.

"Oh, honestly, Hazel, wake up!"

I bolt upright, looking around in alarm. I realise quickly enough that I'm not in some Hogwarts-esque location, but in Ginny's room at the Burrow, and it's not Fred that's been calling my name, but an impatient Hermione, who shakes her head as she moves away from my camp bed. I sit back, holding myself up on my elbows and scolding myself for having such a dream, especially about a person I know I can't have anymore.

"You know, after all this time, it really shouldn't take so much effort to wake you up in the morning," Hermione says, standing in front of a mirror and beginning to brush her hair.

"Yeah, well, you know me," I say, rubbing my eyes blearily and avoiding looking directly at her, "my body clock's always been a little messed up."

"A little?" I hear Ginny's voice saying, sounding amused. I stick up my middle finger in the direction of her voice, making her laugh again. She passes by my camp bed as she heads for the door, and she gives me an overly-excited wave as she goes.

When the door swings shut after Ginny, Hermione looks over at me, giving me an all-knowing look that I don't quite like.

"What?" I say.

"Dreaming about Fred again, are you?" she says.

"What makes you say that?" I demand, a little too defensively. "And what the hell d'you mean by 'again'?"

"Hazel, you were saying his name in your sleep," Hermione replies, giving me a look. "And it's definitely not the first time it's happened."

"Shut up," I say, looking away from her again.

"You know, it's normal to still be thinking about him," she says matter-of-factly, looking back at the mirror and continuing to brush through her hair. "Especially since you clearly still like him."

"Yeah, well, we can't be together, so there's no point in dwelling on it," I say, pushing back the covers and sitting upright on the edge of my camp bed.

"Well, as you say," she says, sounding unconvinced and putting her brush away. "Anyway, get ready quickly, it's Harry's birthday after all."

"Right," I say. "Be there in a moment. You go on without me."

She hesitates, before nodding, grabbing her present for Harry (a brand new Sneakoscope), and walking out of the room. I sit for a moment longer, shaking off thoughts of the dream and of Fred, before getting to my feet, getting ready quickly, before hurrying over to my trunk to retrieve my presents for Harry. Along with a giant box of Honeydukes chocolate, I got him a photo album, full of all the photos that had been damaged after a bad fight with the Dursleys (in his anger, he had accidentally ruined many of them, including photos of his parents and him, Ron, Hermione, and I. Accidental magic can be inconvenient like that). Though he never admitted to it, I knew it bothered him, so I had set to work on replacing them. Cursing myself for putting off the wrapping of these presents, I take out wrapping paper and wrap them clumsily.

Once finished, I hurry downstairs into the kitchen, where Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and Monsieur Delacour all are. I find Harry in the midst of opening presents and smile.

"Happy birthday, Harry!" I say cheerfully, hugging him. "You're opening presents? Oh, good," I say, placing my clumsily wrapped gift in his hands. "Open mine next."

Smiling, he unwraps the wrapping paper and looks at both gifts. When he looks through the photo album and sees the pictures inside of it, he looks up at me in surprise.

"How did you - ?" he begins.

"I have my ways," I say mysteriously. "And I'd had a feeling that you needed them, so here we are."

"Thank you," he says, looking grateful. "Really."

"Don't mention it," I say, shrugging and smiling.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I don't linger for long at the table, as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle makes the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

"I'll pack these for you," Hermione says brightly, taking Harry's presents out of his arms as we head upstairs. "I'm nearly done packing, I'm just waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of the wash, Ron - "

Ron's splutter is interrupted by the sound of a door opening on the landing of one of the staircases.

"Harry, will you come in here for a moment?"

It's Ginny. Ron comes to an abrupt halt, but, rolling my eyes, I grab onto his wrist and drag him along behind me up the stairs, Hermione following right behind us, while Harry follows Ginny into her room.

"I have a right to know what's going on there, you know!" Ron says indignantly, yanking his wrist away from my grasp, but he makes no move to turn back.

"On what grounds?" I scoff.

"That's my little sister and the bloke who broke up with her," Ron replies. "On those grounds!"

"That bloke also happens to be your best mate," I remind him. "And they were friends before they dated, you know."

"So you think Ginny wanted to talk to him alone on his  _birthday_ as _friends_?" Ron says disbelievingly as we reach his bedroom.

"Why not?" I say, while Hermione packs all of Harry's presents, though I don't quite believe it myself.

"Ron, just drop it," Hermione insists, having finished. "It's none of our business."

"It's my sister!" Ron says again, and with that, he disappears out of the room.

"Ron!" Hermione and I say in unison.

We exchange exasperated looks, before hurrying out of the room after him. He's nowhere to be seen in the hallway, but we have a good idea where he went, so we hurry down the stairs until we reach the hallway of Ginny's room. We find him at the door in front of her bedroom.

"Ron!" I say again, as we run down to meet him, but just as we reach him, he causes the door to bang open. We see Harry and Ginny kissing, before they jump apart.

"Oh," Ron says pointedly. "Sorry."

_No, you're not._

"Ron!" Hermione whispers, slightly out of breath.

There's a strained silence, before Ginny says in a flat little voice, "Well, happy birthday, anyway, Harry."

Ron's ears are scarlet, Hermione looks nervous, Harry looks extremely annoyed, Ginny has her back turned away from us (which tells me that she's not feeling all that pleased), and I just wish Ron wasn't so tactless.

"I'll see you later," Harry finally says to Ginny, and follows us out of the bedroom.

Ron marches downstairs, through the still-crowded kitchen and into the yard. Harry keeps pace with him the whole way, while Hermione and I follow a little bit behind, Hermione looking scared. Once we reach the seclusion of the freshly-mown lawn, Ron rounds on Harry.

"You ditched her, what are you doing now, messing her around?"

"I'm not messing her around," Harry says, as Hermione and I draw level to them.

"Ron - " Hermione begins, but Ron holds up a hand to stop her.

"She was really cut up when you ended it - "

"So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn't because I wanted to."

"Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she's just going to get her hopes up again - "

"She's not an idiot, she knows it's not going to happen, she doesn't expect us to - to end up married, or - "

He stops suddenly, but Ron talks in his place, saying, "If you keep groping her every chance you get - "

"It won't happen again," Harry says harshly. "Okay?"

Ron looks half resentful, half sheepish; he rocks backwards and forwards on his feet for a moment, before saying, "Right, then, well, that's... yeah."

_Boys._

 

***

 

All in all, Charlie Weasley's arrival comes as a relief. It's a distraction that isn't the least bit unpleasant or stressful. And, really, there's something very amusing about watching Mrs. Weasley force him into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and announce that he's about to get a proper haircut.

As Harry's birthday diner would've stretched the Burrow's kitchen to the breaking point even without the arrival of Remus, Tonks, Hagrid, and Charlie, several tables are placed end-to-end in the garden. Fred and George bewitch a number of purple lanterns all emblazoned with a large number '17' to hang in midair over the guests. Hermione makes purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over trees and bushes.

"Nice," says Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turns the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You've really got an eye for that sort of thing."

"Thank you, Ron!" Hermione says, looking both pleased and a little confused.

I look away to keep myself from laughing out loud, turning to talk to Remus and Tonks. It's rather odd talking to them, though. While Remus smiles as we talk to each other, he looks distinctly unhappy. It's especially weird to see next to Tonks, who looks radiant.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" Mrs. Weasley sings, coming through the gate with what appears to be a giant, beach ball-sized Snitch floating through the air. After a moment, I realise that it's Harry's birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley is suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over uneven ground.

When the cake lands on the middle of the table, Harry says, "That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," Mrs. Weasley says fondly.

Remus smiles while he shakes Harry's hand, but he still looks rather unhappy, meanwhile Tonks hugs Harry tightly, beaming. Hagrid honours the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit.

"Seventeen, eh!" Hagrid says, as he accept a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Six years ter the day we first met, Harry, d'you remember it?"

"Vaguely," Harry says, grinning up at him. "Didn't you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig's tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"

"I forge' the details," Hagrid says, chuckling. "Alrigh', Ron, Hazel, Hermione?"

"We're good," I reply. "How are you, Hagrid?"

"Not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns. I'll show yeh when yeh get back - " I avoid looking anybody in the eye as he rummages through his pocket. "Here, Harry - couldn' think of what ter get yeh, but then I remember this." Hagrid pulls out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch with a long string, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. "Moleskin. Hide anythin' in there an' no one but the owner can get it out. They're rare, them."

"Thanks, Hagrid!"

"S'nothin'," Hagrid says, waving a dustbin-lid-sized hand airily. "An' there's Charlie! Always liked him - hey! Charlie!"

Charlie approaches, running a hand slightly ruefully through his now brutally short hair. He's shorter than Ron, built and shorter and stockier like Fred and George, rather than tall and lanky like Ron, with a number of burns and scratches up his muscled arms.

"Hi, Hagrid, how's it going?"

"Bin meanin' ter write fer ages. How's Norbert doin'?"

"Norbert?" Charlie laughs. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now."

"Wha - Norbert's a girl?"

"Oh, yeah," Charlie nods.

"How can you tell?" I ask curiously.

"They're a lot more vicious," he replies. He looks over his shoulder and drops his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum's getting edgy."

We all look over at Mrs. Weasley. She's attempting to make conversation with Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly at the gate.

"I think we'd better start without Arthur," she calls to the garden at large after a moment or two. "He must've been held up at - oh!"

We all see it at the same time: a streak of light that comes flying across the yard and onto the table, where it takes shape as a bright silver weasel, which stands on its hind legs and talks in Mr. Weasley's voice.

"Minister of Magic is coming with me."

The Patronus dissolves into thin air, leaving us all peering at the spot it had vanished in astonishment.

"We shouldn't be here," Remus says at once. "Harry - I'm sorry - I'll explain some other time - "

He seizes Tonks' wrist and pulls her away. They reach the fence, climb over it, and then vanish from sight. Mrs. Weasley looks bewildered.

"The Minister - but why - I don't understand - "

But there's no time to discuss the matter. A second later, Mr. Weasley appears out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, made recognisable by his mane of grizzled hair. The two newcomers march across the yard towards the lantern-lit table, where everybody sits in silence, watching them approach. As Scrimgeour comes within the range of the lantern light, I wonder if he'd always looked so old and grim-looking.

"Sorry to intrude," Scrimgeour says, coming to a halt before the table. "Especially since I can see that I am gate-crashing at a party." His eyes linger on the giant Snitch cake. "Many happy returns."

"Thanks," Harry says.

"I require a private with with you," Scrimgeour says. "Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley, Miss Hazel Knight, and Miss Hermione Granger."

"Us?" Ron says, sounding surprised. "Why us?"

"I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private," Scrimgeour replies. "Is there such a place?" he asks Mr. Weasley.

"Yes, of course," Mr. Weasley says, looking nervous. "The - er - sitting room, why don't you use that?"

"You can lead the way," he tells Ron. "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur."

I see Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley and try to give them a reassuring look as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all get to our feet. As we lead the way back to the house in silence, I know from one look that the others are thinking the same thing as me; that somehow, Scrimgeour must have found out about our plans to drop out of Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour does not speak at all as we walk through the kitchen and into the Burrow's sitting room. The garden had been soft and full of evening light, but it's already dark in here. Harry flicks his wand at the oil lamps as we enter and illuminates the shabby but cosy room.

Scrimgeour sits in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley usually occupies, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once we've done so, Scrimgeour finally speaks.

"I have some questions for the four of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you three - " he points at Harry, Hermione, and I - "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."

 _Right. Like that's going to happen,_ I think sarcastically.

"We're not going anywhere," Harry says, while Hermione and I nod vigorously in agreement. "You can speak to us together or not at all."

Scrimgeour gives Harry a cold, appraising look, as though wondering if it's worth getting hostile this early in the conversation.

"Very well, then," he says, shrugging. He clears his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all look at each other. This is definitely not what any of us were expecting.

"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware that Dumbledore had left you anything?"

"A-all of us?" Ron says. "Me, Hermione, and Hazel, too?"

"Yes, all of - "

But Harry interrupts.

"Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken it so long for you to give us what he left us?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Hermione says, before Scrimgeour can answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she adds, and her voice trembles slightly.

"I had every right," Scrimgeour says dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will - "

"That law was created to stop wizards from passing on Dark artefacts," Hermione cuts in, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling us that Dumbledore was trying to give us something that was cursed?"

"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" Scrimgeour asks.

"No, I'm not," Hermione retorts, "I'm hoping to do some good in the world."

Ron laughs. Scrimgeour's eyes flicker towards him and then away again as Harry speaks.

"So why are you giving them to us now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?"

"No, it'll be because thirty-one days are up," Hermione says at once. "They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove that they're dangerous. Right?"

"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" Scrimgeour says suddenly, ignoring Hermione.

Ron looks startled. "Me? Not - not really... it was always Harry who..."

Ron looks around at Harry, Hermione, and I, to see Hermione giving him a Please-Stop-Talking-Now look, but the damage has already been done. Scrimgeour looks like he's heard exactly what he had hoped for and expected, and swoops in like a hawk on Ron's answer.

"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions - his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects - were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"

"I... dunno," Ron says slowly. "I... when I saw we weren't close... I mean, I think he liked me..."

"You're being modest, Ron," Hermione says. "Dumbledore was very fond of you."

But that seems to be stretching the truth, really. While Dumbledore certainly didn't dislike Ron, as far as I'm aware, they never even had had much of a conversation together. However, Scrimgeour does not seem to be listening. He put a hand inside of his cloak and draws out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid gave Harry. From it, he pulls out a long scroll of parchment, which he unrolls and reads from it.

"'The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'... yes, here we are... 'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.'"

From the bag, Scrimgeour takes out an object that I've seen once before. It looks something like a silver cigarette lighter, but I know that it has the power to suck all light from a place and restore it, all with a simple click. Scrimgeour leans forward and passes the Deluminator to Ron, who turns it over in his fingers, looking stunned.

"That is a valuable object," Scrimgeour says, watching Ron. "It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?"

Ron shakes his head, looking bewildered.

"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," he presses on. "Yet the only ones he remembers in his will are you four. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I guess," Ron mumbles. "What else could I do with it?"

Apparently, Scrimgeour has no suggestions for him. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he returns his eyes to Dumbledore's will.

"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"

Out of the bag, Scrimgeour pulls out a small book that looks as ancient as the copy of  _Secrets of Darkest Art_ upstairs. Its binding is stained and peeling in places. Hermione takes it from Scrimgeour without a word. She holds it in her lap and gazes at it. I look over at it and see that the title is written in runes. As I look, a tear splashes into the embossed symbols.

"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?"

"He... he knew I liked books," Hermione says in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

"But why that particular book?" Scrimgeour asks.

"I don't know. He must've thought I would enjoy it."

"Did you ever discuss secret codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"

"No, I didn't," Hermione replies, still wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any secret codes in thirty-one days, I doubt I will."

She suppresses a sob. We're wedged so tightly together that Ron has difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders (though it is worth noting that he manages it, anyway. I guess true love really does conquer all). Scrimgeour turns back to the will.

"'To Miss Hazel Jasmine Knight,'" he reads, and I sit a little straighter, my stomach twisting. "'I leave my Cross of Elements, in hope that she will see that power and balance of it is everywhere, in more ways that one might think.'"

From inside of the bag, Scrimgeour pulls out not a cross, but a ring, made only of what seems to be obsidian, a small sphere on top of it. I lean forward and take it from him. I look down at it, holding onto it tightly, and, oddly enough, feel it burning in my hands. I look at each person in the room, see them looking at me expectantly, and put it on my finger. It fits me perfectly, and I expect it's been bewitched to fit the person who wears the ring.

Immediately, the sphere on the top of the ring bursts into flames. I jump, and I hear Hermione gasp, but it doesn't hurt at all. If anything, it feels rather pleasant. Before anyone can say anything, the fire turns into a ball of what appears to be rapidly swirling wind. Then it turns into a ball of water, before solidifying into a ball of earth. It turns back into the ball of pure obsidian again. I stare at it in shock for a moment, before taking the ring off my finger again and looking at it closely, trying to understand what this object does exactly, why Dumbledore would give it to me.

"The four elements," Scrimgeour says, and I look up again, closing my hand around the ring. "Fire, air, water, and earth. That is a rare magical object, Miss Knight. Certainly one of Dumbledore's own design, though there are others with a similar idea. Why would Dumbledore give you such an object?"

"I don't know," I say truthfully, not quite understanding it myself. "It's awfully nice to look at."

"It is also believed to be very powerful," Scrimgeour says. "Why would Dumbledore single out you specifically in giving it to you? What did he think you would do with it? Did you and Dumbledore ever discuss using advanced and potentially dangerous magic?"

I honestly couldn't answer Scimgeour's question even if I wanted to, because I have no clue what this ring does besides change into the four elements occasionally.

"No," I reply honestly, "we didn't, and if you really thought this was dangerous to give to me, I wouldn't be holding it, would I, Minister?"

He says nothing, giving me one last lingering look, before returning to the will.

"'To Harry James Potter,'" he reads. "'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"

Scrimgeour pulls out the tiny, walnut-sized, golden ball, its silver wings fluttering feebly and for some reason, feel as though something very big should be happening.

"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" Scrimgeour says, and I'm getting rather tired of this questioning. I mean, it's not like  _we_ understand it all, anyway.

"No idea," Harry says. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to remind me what you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this is a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," says Harry. "What else could it be?"

"I'm asking the questions," Scrimgeour says, shifting a little bit forward in the chair. Dusk is really falling outside now, I see from the window. The marquee beyond the window towers ghostly white over the hedge.

"I noticed your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour says. "Why is that?"

Hermione laughs derisively.

"Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact that Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," she says. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"

"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," Scrimgeour says, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

Harry shrugs, but Hermione answers. At this point, I just think answering questions correctly is such a deeply ingrained habit that she just can't resist the urge whenever someone asks a question.

"Because Snitches have flesh memories."

"What?" Harry, Ron, and I say together, surprised. For Hermione to know something about Quidditch that we don't is rare.

"Correct," Scrimgeour says. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first humans to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch - " he holds up the tiny golden ball - "will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will only open for you."

I look between Scrimgeour, to the Snitch, to Harry rather nervously. Surely there's something inside the Snitch, something not meant for Rufus Scrimgeour's eyes, but how can Harry take the Snitch without it opening in front of Scrimgeour?

"You don't say anything," Scrimgeour notes. "Perhaps you already know what is inside the Snitch?"

Is there a way for him to take it without him touching it with his bare skin?

"No," Harry says.

Or maybe it doesn't open unless Harry wants it to open? That would make sense, wouldn't it?

"Take it," Scrimgeour says quietly.

He holds out his hand, and Scrimgeour leans forward to place the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.

Nothing happens. As Harry's fingers close around the Snitch, its tired wings flutters and stay still. Scrimgeour, Ron, Hermione, and I stare at it avidly, as though expecting it to transform in some way.

"That was dramatic," Harry says coolly, and Ron, Hermione, and I laugh.

"That's all, then, is it?" Hermione asks, making to raise herself off the sofa.

"Not quite," Scrimgeour says, looking bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter."

"What is it?" Harry asks.

Scrimgeour does not bother to read from the will this time.

"The sword of Godric Gryffindor," Scrimgeour replies. Ron and Hermione stiffen. My eyes narrow slightly, and I look around, looking for some sign of a sword, but Scrimgeour does not pull one out from his pouch, which in any case would be too small to carry it.

"So where is it?" Harry asks suspiciously.

"Unfortunately," Scrimgeour says, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artefact, and as such, belongs - "

"It belongs to Harry," Hermione says hotly. "It chose him, he's the one who found it, it came to him through the Sorting Hat - "

"According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor," he says. "That does not make that sword the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratches a badly-shave cheek, apparently scrutinising Harry. "Why do you think?"

" - Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" Harry says, clearly starting to lose his temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."

"This is not a joke, Potter!" Scrimgeour scowls. "Was it because Dumbledore believed only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as so many do, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Interesting theory," Harry says. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people on that, instead of wasting time stripping down Deluminators and covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this is what you've been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying - I was nearly one of them - Voldemort chased me across three countries, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there's no word about any of that from the Ministry, is there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!"

"You go too far!" Scrimgeour shouts, standing up. Harry jumps to his feet, too. Scrimgeour limps towards Harry and jabs him hard in the chest with the point of his wand, singing a hole in Harry's shirt like a lit cigarette.

"Oi!" Ron says, jumping up to his feet and raising his own wand.

I leap up to stop him, forcing him to lower his wand. I hate the bloke too right now, but he's still the Minister of Magic, and I'd rather not get arrested on some ridiculous charge while Voldemort's taking over the world.

"No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?" Harry says, apparently thinking the same thing as me.

"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" Scrimgeour says. "Remembered that I'm not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and subordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some respect."

"It's time you earned it," Harry retorts.

The floor trembles; there's the sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room bursts open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley run in.

"We - we thought we heard - " Mr. Weasley begins, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and the Minister for Magic virtually nose to nose - "raised voices."

Scrimgeour takes a few steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he made in Harry's shirt. He looks like he regrets his loss of temper.

"It - it was nothing," he growls. "I... regret your attitude," he continues, looking Harry full in the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you - what Dumbledore - desired. We ought to work together."

"I don't like your methods, Minister," Harry says. "Remember?"

He raises his fist to display to Scrimgeour the scar that still shows white on the back of it, spelling 'I must not tell lies.' Scrimgeour's expression hardens. He turns away without a word and limps out of the room. Mrs. Weasley hurries after him; I hear her stop at the back door.

After a moment or two, she calls, "He's gone!"

"What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asks, looking around at the four of us, as Mrs. Weasley hurries back into the room.

"To give us what Dumbledore had left us," Harry answers. "They've only just released the contents of his will."

Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the four objects that Scrimgeour had given us are passed from hand to hand. Everyone explains over the Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard, looks on in fascination when they discover what the Cross of Elements can do, lament the fact that Scrimgeour refused to pass on the sword, but no one can offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore had left Harry an old Snitch.

"Hey, I've seen this before," Mr. Weasley says, turning over the Cross of Elements in his hands. "In Dumbledore's office, years and years ago while I was at school. One of the portraits in there - I forget which one exactly - told me it shows the balance of the four elements and how to control them, but I - well, I forget exactly why - or how, for that matter," he admits sheepishly. "But it's a fascinating object."

Mrs. Weasley turns to Harry and says tentatively, "Harry, dear, everyone's awfully hungry... we didn't want to start without you... shall I serve dinner now?"

We all eat rather hurriedly, and after a hasty chorus of "Happy birthday" and a lot of cake, the party breaks up. Hagrid, who has been invited to the wedding the following day, but is far too big to sleep in the already overstretched Burrow, leaves to set up a tent for himself in a neighbouring field.

"Meet us upstairs," Harry whispers to Hermione and I, while we help Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."

And so when the sky turns pitch black and we're sure most of the house is tucked away in their beds, Hermione and I sneak out of Ginny's bedroom to Ron's. When we reach it, I tap on the door, before the two of us tiptoe inside.

" _Muffliato!_ " Hermione whispers, waving her wand in the direction of the door.

"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" Ron says, raising his eyebrows.

"Times change," Hermione replies. "Now, show us that Deluminator."

Ron obliges at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicks it. The solitary lamp lit in the room goes out at once.

"The thing is," Hermione whispers through the dark, "we could've easily achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

There's a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flies back to the ceiling and illuminates us once more.

"Still, it's cool," Ron says, a little defensively. "And from what he said, Dumbledore invented it himself!"

"I know, but surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will to help us turn out the lights!"

"D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd left us?" Harry wonders aloud.

"He must've," I say. "After all, he didn't really explain why he left us what he did in the will, that must be why. But that still doesn't explain why..."

"... why he couldn't have left us a hint while he was still alive?" Ron says.

"Well, yes," I say, turning over the Cross of Elements in my hands. "If all this stuff is important enough to pass on right under the Ministry's nose, you'd think he'd want to tell us  _why_... unless he figured it was obvious?"

"Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" Ron says. "I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch - what the hell was that about?"

"I've no idea," Hermione admits. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure something was going to happen!"

"Yeah, well," Harry says, raising the Snitch slightly. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?"

"What d'you mean?" Hermione asks.

"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" Harry says. "Don't you remember?"

I frown for a moment, confused, until I remember: Harry nearly swallowed the Snitch in his first Quidditch match. Ron apparently understands it, too, because he gasps, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again before he finds his voice.

"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"

"Exactly," Harry nods, and presses his mouth to the Snitch.

Nothing. Looking disappointed, he lowers it again, but Hermione cries out.

"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!"

Harry, nearly dropping the Snitch in excitement, looks it over again. Squinting slightly, I see that Hermione is quite right. Engraved on the smooth, golden surface, where before there had been nothing, are five words written in thin, slanting writing that I recognise as Dumbledore's:  _I open at the close_.

I barely manage to read them before they disappear again.

"I open at the close... what's that supposed to mean?"

Ron, Hermione, and I shake our heads, looking blank.

"I open at the close... I open at the close... I open at the close..."

But no matter how often we repeat the words, with many different inflections, we're unable to get any meaning from them.

"And the sword," Ron says finally, when we've at last abandoned our attempts to find meaning in the Snitch's inscription. "Why did he want Harry to have it?"

"And why couldn't he have just told me?" Harry says quietly. "I was there, it was right there on the wall in his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn't he just hand it to me then?"

It all feels like doing an exam with a question that I should know, but my mind draws blank all the same. Why is everything so unclear and confusing? Is there something Dumbledore had left out all this time, or are we just missing the truth that's right in front of our eyes?

"And what about that ring?" Ron moves on. "That Cross of Elements, or whatever. Why did Dumbledore want you to have it, Hazel? What does it even do, really?"

"That's what I've been wondering," I say, holding up the ring and shaking my head, feeling lost.

"Put it on again," Hermione says, and I obey, slipping it on my finger. At once, it bursts into flames, before turning into the ball of swirling wind, turning into water, transforming into a ball of earth, until it goes back to obsidian again.

"Mr. Weasley says it's got something to do with controlling the four elements and balancing them," I say, "which sort of goes along with what Dumbledore said in his will, doesn't it? He talked about seeing power and balance everywhere, in more ways than one would think. So what I'm supposed to do wit it has to do with that?"

"Scrimgeour talked about dangerous and powerful magic," Harry says, frowning. "But I'm still not getting what's so dangerous about it. Or what it has to power or balance, for that matter."

I look back down at the Cross of Elements, to see that it's back at fire. I stare at the flames, focusing on them carefully. Then, without warning, Ron's dresser bursts into flames. I curse under my breath, Hermione gasps, Ron yelps, and Harry jumps back. Everyone reaches for their wands, but before they can do anything, the fire goes out again, and the dresser remains untouched.

"How - how the bloody hell did that happen?" Ron says, breathing deeply.

"I - I don't know," I say, shaking my head frantically. "I was just staring at the fire, concentrating on it, I suppose and then it just - I guess it just burst into flames. And then I was thinking about how the fire had to go out, and then - well, I guess it just - well, just went out. Just accidental magic, isn't it?"

"Accidental magic isn't very likely to happen as you get older, definitely not when you're of age," Hermione says, looking eager. "It has to be related to that ring! That's what they must be referring to about power!"

"But how does it work exactly? I just have to think about it and that's all? Something about it sounds a little too easy," I say, shaking my head. "And what does Dumbledore want me to do with it, anyway? Set Voldemort and his Horcruxes on fire?"

Everyone is silent at my words, having no answer to my question. I slip the ring off my finger, staring down at the obsidian, feeling no more clear about what Dumbledore meant for me to do with it.

"And as for this book," Hermione says, pressing on. " _The Tales of Beedle the Bard..._ I've never even heard of them!"

"You've never heard of  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?" Ron says incredulously. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," Hermione says in surprise. "Do you know them, then?"

"Well, of course I do!"

I look up from the Cross of Elements at that, surprised. It's extremely rare for Ron to have read a book that Hermione hasn't even heard of before. Ron, however, looks bemused by our surprise.

"Oh, come on! All the old kid's stories are supposed to be Beedle's, aren't they? 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune'... 'The Wizard and the 'Hopping Pot'... 'Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump'..."

"Excuse me?" Hermione says, giggling. "What was that last one?"

"Come off it," Ron says, looking incredulously from Harry, to Hermione, to me, and back again. "You must've heard of Babbity Rabbity - "

"Ron, you know full well that the three of us were brought up by Muggles," I say. "We didn't hear those kinds of stories when we were little, we heard the Muggle ones, like 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' and 'Cinderella' - "

"What's that, an illness?" Ron asks.

"Says the person who loves a story called 'Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump,'" I retort.

"So, these are children's stories?" Hermione says, bending over the runes.

"Yeah," Ron says uncertainly. "I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they're like in the original versions."

"But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?"

Something cracks downstairs.

"Probably just Charlie, now Mum's asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair," Ron says nervously.

"All the same, we should get to bed," Hermione whispers. "It wouldn't do to oversleep tomorrow."

"No," Ron agrees. "A brutal quadruple murder by the groom's mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding. I'll get the light."

And as Hermione and I leave, there's a click, and all the light leaves the room once more.


	9. The Wedding

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Nine: The Wedding**

 

Three o'clock the following afternoon finds me in Ginny's room, staring into the mirror. I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I barely even see my own reflection. It's only when Ginny yells at me to stop being so vain and let others have a turn that I snap out of it and actually look at myself quickly.

Turning my face to look at myself decisively, I decide I do look rather nice. Well, I must, anyway, since Mrs. Weasley have me her seal of approval, and she's been particularly critical today. My icy blue dress reaches just above my knees. There's lace covering the top part of it, stopping just below my chest, the rest of the dress made only of a soft, flowing material. My hair is set in loose waves, and I've even given heels a try, wearing a pair of white ones that go quite nicely with my dress (though, only after spending days learning how to walk in them without tipping over). All in all, I'm quite pleased with myself, stepping away from the mirror at last.

" _Finally!_ " Ginny says dramatically, stepping in front of the mirror in my place, adjusting her golden dress slightly and staring at herself critically.

"Oi, watch it," I say warningly, sitting down on the foot of Ginny's bed, "everyone else is being dramatic enough today, you don't get to add to it."

"Fair enough. You win this round, Knight," Ginny says, turning away from her reflection. "I swear, I'm not really getting what all this fuss is about. Sure, weddings are supposed to be nice, but if I ever cause this much trouble just because I'm getting married, feel free to kill me."

"Deal," I say cheerfully, smiling cheekily at her, and laughing when she sends a rude hand gesture my way.

"You're both ridiculous," Hermione says, rolling her eyes. "And, Ginny, I can guarantee you that if you do get married, you'll be more likely to be killing people than anyone else."

"I'll take you up on that bed, Hermione," Ginny says confidently. "And if I lose, it doesn't even matter, because Hazel's already agreed to murder me if I go mad, haven't you, Hazel?"

"You know it, Weasley," I nod.

Hermione shakes her head at the pair of us and opens her mouth to speak, but then there's a loud banging on the door and Mrs. Weasley's voice yells at us, "If you three are dressed, then hurry up and help Fleur get ready! This is her wedding, you know!"

"Oh, shit, is it really her wedding day?" Ginny says sarcastically, clapping her hand to her forehead, as we all get to our feet and walk towards the door. "Damn, I forgot all about it! I mean, it's not like anybody mentioned it!"

Hermione and I laugh, though the former says, as she reaches for the door, "Don't let your mother hear that."

"You know, I don't even think it'll matter. I'm pretty sure she's got selective hearing today," Ginny insists, as the three of us walk towards Percy's old room, where Fleur and Gabrielle are staying and where Fleur is doubtlessly getting ready. "If it's not about the wedding, she just won't hear it."

"Either way, I really don't think it's something you want to risk today," I say, grinning.

As it turns out, we're quite useless in helping Fleur get ready. She's already dressed in her very simple white dress, her hair and makeup and everything in between already done. Madame Delacour, Mrs. Weasley, and Gabrielle (also wearing a golden dress, as she and Ginny are bridesmaids) seem to be doing most of the work with the finishing touches, Hermione, Ginny, and I simply standing a few feet away and chiming in every once in a while to say how beautiful Fleur looks. Fleur seems to be so happy that she doesn't even seem to mind our uselessness. Her radiance usually makes everyone else in the room look duller, but today everyone near her looks more beautiful.

Soon, just as Gabrielle places the tiara on Fleur's head, an elderly witch with a beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and a leathery pink hat that gives her the impression of a bad tempered flamingo enters the room. Mrs. Weasley gives her a strained smile. Ginny looks horrified.

"Auntie Muriel!" Mrs. Weasley says, smiling a little too hard. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see how everything was going," the woman says loudly, looking around the room. "Not to mention, to show the bride how exactly to wear  _my_ tiara."

Auntie Muriel's eyes land on Ginny, more specifically on her dress. Remembering all I've heard about her, I realise that Ginny's dress might be a little too short and low-cut for the occasion, at least in the eyes of Auntie Muriel.

"Ginevra, what on earth are you wearing?" she demands.

"A dress," Ginny says, very close to scowling.

"Hardly!" Auntie Muriel scoffs. "I've handkerchiefs that could cover you more than that thing!" Ginny looks like she's about to say something, but Auntie Muriel looks around the room, before saying, "Now, you must be the bride herself, Fleur, and you two must be her mother and sister," she says, nodding at Fleur, Madame Delacour, and Gabrielle, before turning her gaze on Hermione and I, "but who are you two?"

"Hazel Knight and Hermione Granger," Ginny says, pointing at each of us in turn.

"Oh, dear, is this the Muggle-born?" Auntie Muriel says, glancing over at Hermione before returning her gaze to Mrs. Weasley and Ginny. She looks Hermione over once more, before turning back and saying, in what I suppose she thinks is an undertone. "Bad posture and skinny ankles..."

"And that'll be Brandon and Jasmine Knight's daughter," she says, gesturing over at me, continuing in what's apparently her habit of talking about people as if they're not in the room, even if they are and can hear her very well. "No matter what she looks like, she clearly takes more after her father. I know for a fact that her  _mother_ carried herself with much more grace... and the state of her knees..."

Auntie Muriel then proceeds to make a very inappropriate comment that I would not expect a person of her age to make, mentioning Fred in ways that I did not need to hear, especially from her, especially in front of so many people, including Fred's mother. My face burning, I avoid looking at anybody, and silently resent whoever it was who told this woman about my relationship with Fred.

"Ginny, Hazel, Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley says loudly, clapping her hands together and looking very embarrassed. "How about the three of you go down to the marquee and make sure everything is running smoothly?"

"Excellent idea, Molly," Auntie Muriel says, nodding once. "Provides less distraction for me to teach Fleur here how to wear this tiara, because let me tell you, you do not do it like  _that_ \- "

By this point, Hermione, Ginny, and I are long out of the room.

"So," Ginny says, looking as though she doesn't know whether to be amused or mortified, "that's Auntie Muriel."

"She - she's an awfully pleasant woman, isn't she?" Hermione says, looking as though she can't quite believe what she's witnessed.

"You know, I always thought you guys were exaggerating about her," I say. "But she really is - "

"A complete, heinous bitch?" Ginny suggests, grinning. "Yeah, well, now you know. And you really learned the hard way, didn't you?"

"In front of Mrs. Weasley," I whisper in horror, closing my eyes and shaking my head.

"Hey, if it helps, I don't think Mum'll hate you for it," Ginny says, looking as though she's trying very hard not to laugh. "She just won't be able to look you - or Fred, for that matter - in the eye for a while."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically. "That's real helpful."

"I do what I can."

Ginny breaks away from us once we reach the yard, while Hermione and I head towards the marquee entrance, where Harry and Ron are standing, Harry disguised as a red-haired Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, passing for a Weasley by the name of Barny.

In the distance, I can see the white-robed waiters, along with the golden jacketed band, standing together a short distance away under a tree, a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Between Harry and Ron, the entrance of the marquee reveals rows and rows of fragile-looking golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles are entwined with white and gold flowers. An enormous bunch of golden balloons are fastened over the exact point where Bill and Fleur will soon become husband and wife.

"Wow," Ron says, looking at Hermione, in her floaty, lilac dress, matching heels, and sleek and shiny hair. "You look great!"

"Always the tone of surprise," Hermione smiles. "Your Auntie Muriel doesn't agree, we just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said, 'Oh, dear, is this the Muggle-born?' and then 'Bad posture and skinny ankles.' Still, it's not as bad as what Hazel got, though."

"What did you get?" Harry asks me, raising his now ginger eyebrows.

"Well, first she said that it's obvious I took more after my father, since my mother carried herself with more grace than I do," I say. "And then she insulted my knees, saying, 'The reason the state of them is so awful is because Fred's always got her - '" I stop abruptly, seeing Fred and George coming within earshot. "Point is, it was extremely unexpected and inappropriate and she said it right in front of Mrs. Weasley, so there's that."

"Well, don't take it personally," Ron says, laughing, "she's rude to everyone."

"Talking about Muriel?" George asks, emerging from the marquee with Fred, who I try very hard not to look at for various reasons. "Yeah, she's just barely gotten here and she's already told me that my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings."

"Wasn't he the one who saw the Grim and died twenty-four hours later?" Hermione says.

"Well, yeah, he went a bit odd towards the end," George concedes.

"But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party," Fred says matter-of-factly. "He used to down an entire bottle of Firewhiskey, then run onto the dance floor, hoist up his robes, and start pulling out bunches of flowers out of his - "

"Yes, he sounds like a real charmer," Hermione says, while Harry and I burst out laughing. Forgetting myself, I look over at Fred momentarily, and we lock eyes for a moment. I stop laughing slowly, and his grin fades slightly, and everything melts away - that is, until Ron speaks, ending the moment.

"Never married, for some reason."

"I can't imagine why," I say, getting a hold of myself and laughing again.

We're all laughing so hard that none of us notice the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with a large, curved nose and thick, black eyebrows until he hands his invitation to Ron and says, with his eyes on Hermione, "You look vunderful."

"Viktor!" she shrieks, and drops her small beaded bag, which makes a loud thump that's rather disproportionate to its size. As she scrambles to pick it up, blushing, she says, "I didn't know you were - goodness - it's lovely to see - how are you?"

Ron's ears have gone bright red. After glancing at the invitation as if he doesn't believe a word of it, he says, much too loudly, "How come you're here?"

"Fleur invited me," Krum says, eyebrows raised.

I, having no grudge against Krum and deciding it's too early for people to start feeling overly hostile, smile and shake his hand. Harry follows suit, then offers to show him his seat, clearly thinking it would be wise to remove Krum from Ron's vicinity.

When he leaves, there's a rather awkward silence, in which Hermione is still pink and Ron's ears are still scarlet. The increasingly uncomfortable moment ends when I look over to the Burrow and see Mr. and Mrs. Weasley walking towards the marquee, followed by Monsieur Delacour and Fleur.

"I think it's starting," I say. "We should go sit down."

With that, I lead the way into the marquee, and we make our quickly over to Harry.

"Time to sit down," Fred tells him, "or we're going to get run over by the bride."

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I take our seats in the second row behind Fred and George. After a few moments, I hear Ron muttering, "Did you see he's grown a stupid little beard?"

Harry gives a noncommittal grunt, but I just roll my eyes and feel glad that Hermione hasn't heard. The last thing we need is romance problems in the middle of a wedding.

A sense of jittery anticipation has filled the tent, the general murmuring occasionally broken by a spurt of laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stroll up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives. A moment later Bill and Charlie stand up at the front of the marquee, both wearing dress robes with larger white roses in their buttonholes. Fred wolf-whistles and there's an outbreak of giggling coming from nearby Veela cousins of Fleur, who had been eyeing him a lot before.

 _You're not allowed to be jealous, you're not allowed to be jealous, you're not allowed to be jealous,_ I remind myself sternly, suddenly taking extreme interest in the ceiling.

The crowd falls silent when music swells from what seems to be the golden balloons.

"Oooh!" Hermione says, swivelling around in her seat to look at the entrance.

A great collective sigh issues from the seated witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur come walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur seems to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. Her presence continues to make everyone else seem more beautiful, as opposed to duller, so that Ginny and Gabrielle look even prettier than usual and, once Fleur reaches him, Bill looks as if he's never even met Fenrir Greyback.

"Ladies and gentleman," says a slightly singsong voice, and with a slight shock, I see the same small, tufty-haired wizard who had spoken at Dumbledore's funeral, now standing in front of Bill and Fleur. "We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."

"Yes, my tiara set off the whole thing nicely," Auntie Muriel says in a carrying whisper. "But I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low cut."

Ginny glances around, grinning, winks, and quickly faces the front again.

"Do, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?"

In the front row, both Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour are sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee tells everyone that Hagrid has taken out one of his tableclotch-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turns to beam at us, her eyes swimming with tears, too.

"... then I declare you bonded for life."

The tufty-haired wizard waves his wand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fall upon them, spiralling around their now entwined figures. As Fred and George lead a round of applause, the golden balloons overhead burst. Birds of paradise and tiny golden bells fly and float around us, adding their songs and chimes to the din.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the tufty-haired wizard calls. "If you would please stand up!"

We all do so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly. The chairs on which we were sitting rise gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanish, so that we stand beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a gorgeous view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spreads from the centre of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs group themselves around small, white-clothed tables, which all float gracefully back to the earth around it, and the golden-jacketed band troop towards a podium.

"Smooth," Ron says approvingly, as the waiters pop up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, Butterbeer, and Firewhiskey, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches.

"We should go and congratulate them!" Hermione says, standing on tiptoe to see where Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.

"We'll have time later," Ron shrugs, snatching four Butterbeers from a passing tray and passing one to Harry, Hermione, and I. "Let's grab a table... not there! Nowhere near Muriel!"

Ron leads the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he goes, and I get the distinct feeling that he's keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time we reach the other side of the marquee, most of the tables are full. The emptiest is the one where Luna sits by herself.

"Alright if we join you?" Ron asks.

"Oh, yes," Luna says happily. "Daddy's just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present."

"What is it, a lifetime supply of Gurdyroots?" Ron says.

"Oh, we considered giving them some," Luna says matter-of-factly, "but then we decided it was obvious they'd like Dirigible plums much better."

"Yeah," I agree very seriously, "extremely obvious."

When the band begins to play, Bill and Fleur take to the dance floor first, to great applause. After a while, Mr. Weasley leads Madame Delacour to the floor, followed by Mrs. Weasley and Monsieur Delacour.

"I like this song," Luna says, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later, she stands up and glides onto the dance floor, where she resolves the spot, completely alone, eyes closed and waving her arms.

"She's great, isn't she?" Ron says admiringly. "Always good company."

But the smile quickly vanishes from his face, for Viktor Krum takes up Luna's empty seat. Hermione looks flustered once more, but this time Krum does not compliment her. With a scowl on his face and looking at a man who, with his slightly crossed eyes, his shoulder-length white hair with the texture of candy floss, wearing a cap with its tassel dangling in front of his nose and robes matching the eye-watering yellow colour of Luna's dress, and an odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistening from a gold chain around his neck, is clearly Luna's father, he says, "Who is that man in yellow?"

"That's Xenophilius Lovegood, the father of a friend of ours," Ron replies, his tone indicating that we're not to laugh at Xenophilius in any way, regardless of the provocation to do so. "Come and dance," he adds abruptly to Hermione.

She looks taken aback, but pleased, too, and gets to her feet. They vanish into the growing crowd on the dance floor.

"Ah, they are together now?" Krum says, momentarily distracted.

"Erm," Harry and I say together, exchanging uncertain glances, unsure of what to say about Ron and Hermione anymore.

"In a manner of speaking," I add. I catch Ginny's eye and see her gesturing for me to come over to her, so I say, "Er - excuse me," and get to my feet.

When I reach her, she says, "Auntie Muriel's talking about your knees again. Thought you should know."

I let out a loud groan, making Ginny laugh, "Why is she so bloody obsessed with my knees!"

"If you had picked anyone else but Fred, she wouldn't be doing it," she informs me. "Unless you had picked George. The woman hates the both of them, I'm pretty sure she's written them off her will - not that they need it, the rate they're going with the joke shop, but still."

"Why can't she just insult my taste in men, then?" I say. "Why does she have to make inappropriate comments about my knees?"

"That's Muriel, for you," Ginny says knowingly. "Now, let's go dance with Luna. It's getting uncomfortable to watch her dance by herself - and besides, it'll be fun."

"Fine by me," I say, grinning, and together, we hurry over to join Luna on the dance floor.

 

***

 

Fred stood, a little ways' off from the dance floor, his hands in his pockets and talking animatedly with George and Lee. He was quite liking the way the night was turning out, until he saw Hazel standing and talking with Ginny and his smile all but faded, remembering everything that had been upsetting him lately.

"Is everything alright?" George said, frowning, until he follows his twin's line of vision and said in understanding, having finally been informed of the breakup by Fred, "Oh. I see."

Lee, on the other hand, looked from Fred, to George, to Hazel, and back again, looking extremely confused. "I don't get it. Is everything alright with Hazel?"

"Oh, yeah," Fred said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Everything's bloody brilliant."

Again, Lee looked from Fred to George, before stating, "I'm missing something here."

George looked over at Fred and said, somewhat uncertainly, "Hazel - erm - "

"Hazel broke up with me," Fred blurted out.

An almost comically surprised expression crossed Lee's face at Fred's words. His eyes widened and his eyebrows rose and he looked at him in shock, as though he half expected Fred to burst out laughing and telling him he's kidding. But Fred wasn't kidding, so he just looked right back at Lee until the initial shock wore off.

"You - you're kidding, right?" Lee says uncertainly.

"If only," Fred sighs, trying very hard not to look at Hazel again, but failing, anyway.

"But - er - why?" Lee said, adding, "Unless you don't want to talk about it."

Fred was silent for a moment, staring at Hazel again. It seemed like she didn't know he was there at all, and he didn't know if he would prefer it if she looked over at him and noticed him or if she never did.

"She reckons one of us is going to get hurt in the long run," Fred finally replies. "With this war and everything... so she'd rather that I essentially forget I'd ever met her and go on with my life and meet someone new and... well, you know."

"So... it's not that she doesn't fancy you, she's just... scared?" Lee said slowly.

"I suppose so, yeah," Fred nodded.

After that, Lee swiftly and bracingly changed the subject, and George took after Lee's example, putting too much enthusiasm in a conversation about how good the food tasted. Fred participated as best as he could, but his attention on the conversation left when he noticed Hazel dancing with Ginny and Luna, laughing and singing together. He tried to act more absorbed in the conversation, but he couldn't do it, he was far too caught up in looking at her.

"What's with that look on your face, Fred?" Lee asked, so that Fred tore his gaze away from Hazel to look at him instead.

"What look on my face?" Fred said, slightly defensively. "It's just my face, and if you've got a problem with my face - "

"That is not just your face," Lee said, rolling his eyes slightly. "So what's got you so happy?"

"Nothing," Fred replied. "I mean - it's just - it's a wedding, I'm getting in the mood."

"You were the one calling the whole thing ridiculous," George scoffed.

"I wasn't calling the wedding ridiculous," Fred said impatiently. "I was calling all the trouble that went into it ridiculous."

"Well, either way, there was  _something_ going on for you," Lee said, his eyes scanning the marquee, "and, you know, I think I just found it... er, well - actually  _her_."

George followed Lee's line of vision, and a look of understanding immediately crossed his face. Already knowing what they were looking at, Fred followed their gaze to find Hazel once more, who was joining Ginny in dancing in a circle around Luna, all three of them laughing.

"I thought their dancing was funny," Fred mumbled.

George and Lee gave them sympathetic looks.

"I take it you two haven't talked since... well, you know," Lee said awkwardly.

"Once, but it hardly counted as an actual conversation," Fred said. "I've been trying, but she won't even look at me, will she?"

"I think she thinks that if you see her less, you'll think of her less," Lee said. "You know, out of sight, out of mind."

"She's got it wrong, then," Fred said bluntly. "I'm thinking about her move than ever."

"I'm not saying it's a particularly  _effective_ method," Lee said, "I'm just saying it's  _her_ method."

Fred said nothing to this, trying hard not to look at Hazel, but he couldn't help it. She was gorgeous, lively and vivacious, and Merlin, she was so wonderful.

 _And she's not mine anymore,_ Fred reminded himself sternly. _Mine and yours and ours doesn't exist anymore._

But Fred still wanted her desperately, and Hazel did not help matters when she noticed him at last. The exchange (if you could call it that) lasted all of five seconds. She had been twirling around dramatically, her arms outstretched, until she finally slowed to a halt, stumbling but laughing, until she had made eye contact with him. The grin slowly faded from her face, though there were still traces of it there. She looked at him with an odd expression on her face, one that made Fred wish that he could read minds, and he stared back at her, transfixed, straightening up slightly. For a split second, it seemed like she was going to do something, like she was going to say something to him, but then the five seconds were over, and Ginny, who evidently hadn't noticed anything, had pulled her back to dance with her and Luna again. Hazel obliged, and like that, it was over like it had never happened.

Fred let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and, tearing his eyes away from her once again, found George and Lee giving him a pitying yet all-knowing look.

And Fred could no longer take it.

"I'll be right back," he mumbled, then set off quickly across the dance floor, straight for Hazel.

Before George and Lee became completely out of earshot, he heard George mumbling, "He's so far gone, it's not even funny."

"Tell me about it," Lee agreed.

 

***

 

I try with immense difficulty to shake off the moment I had with Fred. It's good that Ginny had forced me to break eye contact with him, as I constantly remind myself just so I don't resent her. What was I even going to do, if she hadn't? I can hardly get back together with him. I know the best thing is for us not to be a couple, and Ginny interrupting had knocked the common sense back into me, and constant reminder of this fact takes away enough resentment at Ginny to enjoy myself again.

Just as the song finishes up and another fast one begins, Fred comes hurrying out of nowhere. At first, I think (and hope) that he's going to talk to Ginny, but when he stretches out his arm, it becomes clear that it's me he wants to see.

"Excuse me, ladies, but I need to borrow Hazel here for a moment," he says, taking my wrist and dragging me away, not slowing his pace once, so that I have to run (with immense difficulty, might I add, in these heels) to keep up with him.

He hurries across the marquee until he stops at a spot near the end of the dance floor.

"Fred, what are you doing?" I ask. "I told you, we can't - "

"Just dance with me," he says, taking my hands in his.

"Do you tune out half of what I say, or something?" I demand, but I don't move away.

"No, of course not!" Fred says, pretending to be scandalised. "Not half of what you say. Maybe a quarter of it, but never half."

"That makes me feel  _so_ much better," I say sarcastically. "I suppose the quarter you turned out lately was the bit where I told you to forget about and move on from me?"

"Actually, no," Fred says matter-of-factly. "That part I listening to very well. I've given it a fair bit of thought, and I've decided something."

"Yeah? And what's that?" I ask.

"I'm not going to do it," he says simply. "I'm not going to forget about you, and that's that."

I look at him in disbelief for several moments, look around the tent, then turn back to him, a slightly exasperated look on my face.

"Fred, you are in a tent full of  _Veela_ ," I say, not understanding why he's so focused on me.

"Yeah, but I'm also in a tent with you, so the decision was obvious," he shrugs.

It's as though something very sharp punctures my heart at those words. My posture slouches slightly, and I sigh. Fred's being awfully sweet, but he's not supposed to be that way to me, not now.

"Fred, I'm leaving soon, you know that," I say. "I don't know when or if I'm coming back, you  _need_ to move on from me."

"But that's besides the point," he says. "For now, just dance with me."

I stare at him for several moments, and I want nothing more than to be with him, but I know I can't. He needs to let go of me, and just dancing with him is going to make letting him go far more difficult for me.

"Fred - " I begin, sighing.

"C'mon, one dance won't kill you," he insists.

"I'm not so sure about that," I murmur.

He looks at me with a slight frown on his face, before pulling me closer to him.

"Come on, Hazel, please. If this is one of the last nights I have with you before you disappear for who knows how long, and then I'm supposed to forget about you and move onto someone else, then just let me have one dance. Please?"

I stare at him for a long time, considering my options. I know that I should say, I know what will make everything easier for him to move on from me and for me to let him go. But then without thinking, I'm blurting out the other answer, the one I shouldn't be doing, but the one I want, "Alright, fine.  _One_ dance."

A brilliant grin crosses his face, and any doubts I had disappear like smoke, because how wrong can a decision be when it make him smile like  _that_?

"It's one dance, though," I say sternly, fighting back a smile. "Then you go off and flirt with some Veela." I pause for a moment, for a lump has formed in my throat at the thought. I swallow it down with difficulty, before saying, "Actually, maybe don't do that in front of me. Wait until I've left."

"The only thing I'll be waiting for is for you to come back," he says, grabs onto my wrist, and twirls me around, before pulling me back to him. I, completely caught off guard, stumble several times in the process, making him laugh.

"A warning would've been nice," I inform him, smiling in spite of myself, and he laughs again.

"Where's the fun in a warning?" he says, grinning.

"Where's the safety in making me of all people twirl around like an idiot?" I retort.

"Since when was safety in the picture?"

"That's true," I agree, and he twirls me around again, and I don't stumble as much, prepared for it this time.

Our dancing continues in this fantastically clumsy manner, reminding me of the Yule Ball. I feel both happy and sad as I think about how much has changed since that Christmas night three years ago.

"What're you thinking about?" Fred asks, apparently noticing that I'm preoccupied.

"The Yule Ball," I reply. "Your dancing hasn't changed much."

"Yours has," he tells me. "Just not for the better."

"Stupid git," I mutter, and he laughs, waltzing jokingly with me.

One dance, as I had admittedly predicted, turns into several, something that Fred points out as a slow song comes on and we calm down enough to slow dance together, my head on his chest as we sway to the music.

"You know, you said one dance quite a few songs ago," he says.

"I did," I agree.

"And you seemed pretty reluctant to do it," he continues.

"I was."

"I guess I just have that effect on people," he concedes.

"Well, you got two out of three right," I tease, lifting my head to smile cheekily at him.

"Hey!" he says, retracting a hand from my waist to put it on his chest dramatically. "That hurt me deeply, Hazel."

"That's too bad," I say with a cheeky smile.

"You're cruel," he says, though he grins as he puts both hands on my waist again.

"You're not much better," I retort. "We're just awful, the both of us."

"That's true," Fred agrees, laughing. "Maybe that's why I'm so in love with you."

His words are punctuated by a fast song starting up, but I hardly notice it. I take a few steps away from him, staring at him, as though frozen, for a while.

"Wait - wait, what?" I choke out, shocked.

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" Fred mutters. "I can't believe I waited until not to say it, but... I love - "

"No - don't - please don't," I say, still staring up at him in shock and trying to think straight. "Come - come with me."

I take his hand and lead him out of the tent. I lead him away, until the sound of the music has almost completely faded away.

"Now just - just wait a minute - you just said - you said - "

"I said that I'm in love with you," Fred says firmly. "Because I am. And I think you've known for a while - even if you didn't know you knew."

"I - no - no, I didn't!" I say, shaking my head and still trying to get my thoughts straight, but my mind is a mess and I keep hearing his words over and over again in my head, making it even harder to think. "I didn't - you didn't - you don't - I don't believe you!"

"I don't care if you don't believe me," he says bluntly. "I love you and that's all there is to it."

I stare at him for a long time, trying to find something that will make any of this easier, but he looks completely earnest as he speaks to me, and I know that he means every word he's saying completely.

Fred loves me. I'm leaving soon. I'm leaving soon and Fred loves me. This should not be happening. Both things should not be happening at the same time. But they are, and here he is waiting for me to say something and I can't just leave him waiting, if only I knew what the hell to say at a time like this, if only every intelligent thought in my brain hadn't disappeared completely.

"You - so - okay, so I believe you," I say stiffly.

"Glad to see we're on the same page about one thing," he says.

I shake my head and look away, back at the tent, where people are dancing and enjoying themselves and Bill and Fleur are even getting the chance to celebrate loving each other.

"I tell you to get over me and you tell me you love me," I say, shaking my head, before looking back up at Fred. "It's not even a quarter anymore, you really do tune out half of what I say, don't you?"

"You know, I've got to wonder if you've been tuning out what I've been saying," he says angrily. "I love you!"

"But you shouldn't - " I begin.

"But I do," he says. "And I know you love me, too, even if it's only a little bit. I  _know_ you do."

"It - it doesn't matter if I do or not," I say.

"Yes, it does!"

"I'm leaving soon - "

"Which is exactly it! If you're leaving for who knows how long, I'd like to have had as much time with you as possible, I'd like to know exactly how you feel - "

" - and if something happens to me, it'll be better for you if you've just moved on from me."

"You don't have to be afraid or worried!" he insists, taking my hands in his and forcing me to look at him. "I'm afraid of losing you - I'm terrified of it, to tell you the truth - but I'm not scared of loving you and you shouldn't be either."

"I just - I can't risk it when we're in the middle of a war - "

"Why not? It's all the reason to risk it, isn't it? It's why Bill and Fleur are getting married, isn't it?"

"We're not Bill and Fleur," I say, holding onto his hands more tightly and looking up at him earnestly, trying to make the message clear. "Bill or Fleur aren't going anywhere for an unknown amount of time!"

"Either way, nothing's guaranteed for them, just like how it isn't for us!" he insists. "Just like how it isn't for anyone now! Hazel, you're willing to risk your life but you won't take a risk that could make us really happy?"

"Or it could make one of us really miserable - "

"Hazel, just - just do one thing for me, and I'll let it drop," he says suddenly.

I straighten up slightly, surprised and more than a little bit suspicious.

"What?"

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, not even a little bit," he says. "Do that and I'll leave it alone."

I look at him for a long time, opening and closing my mouth, trying to get the words out, but they won't come. Finally, I let out a sigh and look away.

"I don't - I don't know how I - I'm not sure of anything right now, and that's why I'm doing this. Because there's nothing certain about anything right now. And I want us to be able to not have anything to worry about, but we do, and I could never live with myself if I knew you were waiting for me when I might not even come back."

He looks at me for a long time, not speaking. It's unnerving, the way he's staring at me, and I have no idea what he's going to do or say, what he's thinking. Fred's unpredictability, the way he can often leave me guessing, keep me on my toes, can prove to be both a good and bad thing.

"You're scared. And I get it. I get why, with the war and everything, but you don't have to let fear control you. Face your fears, Hazel," he murmurs.

"You act like I'm scared of you," I say, shooting him a weak smile. "I'm only afraid of hurting you - or getting hurt - and, really, I am facing that fear, I'm trying to do something about it, instead of just - just sitting and waiting for it to ruin one of us."

"And what if in the process of this, you ruin one - or both of us - anyway?" he demands. "Then what?"

I'm silent for a moment, looking at the ground, before looking back up at him and saying, "Fred, I want you to be happy. I'm ending this so you can be happy, so that once you move on from me, if I die, you'll still be okay."

He looks down at me thoughtfully, until I demand impatiently, "What?"

"You know, a hell of a lot of people have died over the past few years," he says bluntly, taking a step toward me. I want to take a step back, but I feel frozen in place. "Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye... countless names that are in the Prophet, and countless names you and I'll never know. None of them were saints, but some of them... some of them came close. They were good people. Good and strong and true, but they still died. They're dead and we're alive.

"And I started thinking, you know... what right did I have to be alive while they're dead?" he continues, and it's dark all around, but the light from the moon illuminates his face, illuminates his earnest expression. "What did I do to deserve to survive while they died? What did I do that they didn't? I couldn't think of a thing, and it completely infuriated me. But still, here I was, above the ground, and there they were, six feet under."

"How the hell is this supposed to make me feel better?" I mumble, looking down at the ground.

"Give me a second," he says, and I glance up to see him holding up a hand and half-smiling. "Eventually, I realised that they didn't do anything, and neither did I, and that's the whole point. I'm not better than them because I survived, and nor did I survive because I'm beyyer than them. I survived because I'm lucky. Because that's what fighting in a war is. It's not about who's better, it's about who just ends up getting the shorter end of the stick. Cedric was one of the best students in his year. Sirius was a bloody force of nature - and not just when he duelled. Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world. Mad-Eye was one of the best Aurors the Ministry had ever seen. It makes no fucking sense that they died, and yet they did. It's nothing on their part, they just rain out of luck. Think of it like this: whenever something bad, something dangerous, is about to happen, somebody out there flips a coin for each of us. Heads, you survive; tails, you don't."

"Brilliant analogy," I mutter, looking down at my feet to avoid making eye contact with him, "but I still don't quite see where you're going with this..."

"What I'm  _trying_ to say," he says, stepping forward once more and taking my face in his hands again, "is that right now, we're lucky. For right now, the coin's landed on heads for the both of us. We're lucky and alive and that's all that matters. Don't dwell on it too long, don't think about it, just let it be. And I know, literally speaking that you're going to run away to take down You-Know-Who, and I won't stop you, but you don't have to run away from me while you're at it. Don't run, stay.

"Stay," he says again, kissing my forehead. "Stay with me," he shifts his hands slightly to kiss both of my cheeks. His eyes flicker to my lips, before going back up to my eyes. "You don't have to say you love me, not until you want to, not until you're ready, which you're clearly not, and that's fine. I'll wait. Just stay with me. Please.  _Stay_."

His face is close to mine, far too close, because now my heart is moving faster than my brain. My hands move upward slowly, shaking slightly all the while. I don't know their destination until they close around Fred's wrists, grasping onto them tightly. I keep them there, though, not attempting to move his hands away from my face.

"Fred," I say, breathing his name. His face gets closer to mine, and I want to close my eyes and kiss him, but I can't. "Fred, Fred - we can't - we - we really can't - "

He murmurs something, uncharacteristically quietly, something that sounds like, " _Stay_ ," and brings his lips to mine, gently yet urgently.

Our lips have just barely touched, hardly brushing each other, my knees already about to give way, when something large and silvery bounds past us. We jump apart, watching it as it makes its quick progress to the marquee.

"What - what's that?" I say.

"A Patronus, from the looks of it," Fred says. "Is someone sending a message?"

"Must be - do you see any Dementors around here?" I say. "Reckon it's important?"

"Must be," Fred repeats, "otherwise they wouldn't be sending it right now. Let's go check it out."

Fred grabs my hand, and together, we run back towards the marquee, me trying my hardest not to trip in these bloody heels, the both of us temporarily distracted from the moment we just had. We reach the marquee and make our way near the front of the crowd, which has formed a circle in the middle of the dance floor to make room for the silvery figure, which I see now is a lynx. Just as we come to a halt in the crowd, the Patronus opens its mouth widely and speaks in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."


	10. The Café

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Ten: The Café**

 

For a moment, everything seems fuzzy, slow. Fred and I draw our wands, looking around carefully, but it hardly feels real. Many people are only just starting to realise that something strange has happened; heads are still turning towards the silver cat as it vanishes. Silence spreads outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus landed. Then somebody screams.

Somehow, the scream wakes everybody up. As the crowd begins to panic, Fred and I turn to each other. I want to say something to him, anything, even if I don't know what, but he beats me to it.

"You have to go," he says quickly. "Now. Find Harry, Ron, Hermione, and get out of here."

"But what about - about you and everyone here?" I say, shaking my head.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "You know they're here for Harry. Just get out of here, we'll be fine. Go!"

I give him one last lingering look, fear and guilt threatening to explode inside of me, before nodding and throwing myself into the panicking crowd. Guests are sprinting in all directions; many are Disapparating; the protective enchantments around the Burrow have broken. Seeing the panic clears my head, and I know Fred was right. I have to find Harry, Ron, and Hermione and get out of here. Now is the time to go.

I look around desperately, for Harry, Ron, Hermione, but it feels almost hopeless with all the people running around - that is, until I run right into Harry.

"Harry!" I say, clutching onto his arm. "We have to go - we have to find Ron and Hermione and go!"

As we push our way across the dance floor, I see cloaked and masked figures appearing in the crowd. I see Remus and Tonks raise their wands and shout, a cry echoed on all sides, "Protego!"

"Harry! Hazel!" I hear a half-sobbing voice cry, and I recognise it as Hermione's.

Harry and I exchange looks, and start moving faster through the crowd towards the voice. Harry seizes my hand to make sure we're not separated as a streak of light whizzes over our heads, whether it's a protective enchantment or something more harmful I can't tell -

And there they are. Ron and Hermione, having spotted us at the same moment, running towards us. Hermione's hand outstretched towards me. I tighten my grip on Harry's hand, and move close enough to Hermione to be able to grab onto her hand. I feel her turn on the spot, and sight and sound are extinguished as darkness presses upon me on all sides. All I can feel is Harry and Hermione's hands as we squeeze through space and time, away from the Burrow, away from the Death Eaters, away from, perhaps, Voldemort himself.

When my feet land on solid ground and I open my eyes, I see that we're in the middle of the street. For a split second, I think it's abandoned - until sound and sight comes fully back to me and I hear the sound of talking voices, of cars driving past us. I look around, and see a double-decker bus coming right towards us. With a yelp, I let go of Harry and Hermione's hands and fling out my arms to push them back until we're on the sidewalk, the bus speeding right on past us, its horn blaring.

We stare into the busy street blankly for a second, not moving, yet out of breath.

"Thanks for that," Ron breathes.

"What are friends for?" I reply.

"Where are we?" he says.

"Tottenham Court Road," Hermione pants. "Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to change."

The three of us do as she asks. We half-walk, half-run up the wide, dark street thronged with late-night revellers and lined with closed shops, the stars twinkling above us. I can tell why Hermione wants Harry and Ron to change. Hermione and I, wearing regular dressed that any Muggle might wear, can blend in rather easily, but Harry and Ron are still in their dress robes.

"Hermione, we haven't got anything to change into," Ron points out, as a woman bursts into giggles at the sight of him.

"Why didn't I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?" Harry says. "All last year I had it with me - "

"It's okay, I've got the Cloak, I've got clothes for the both of you," Hermione assures them. "Just try and act naturally until - this will do." She leads us down a side street, then into a shadowy alleyway.

"When you say you've got the Cloak and clothes..." Harry says, frowning at Hermione, who's carrying nothing but her small beaded handbag, in which she is now rummaging.

"Yes, they're here," she says, and to the apparent astonishment of Harry and Ron (I've seen the new effects of this handbag before, but even now, I have to admit it's strange to see), she pulls out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally, the silvery Invisibility Cloak.

"How the ruddy hell - ?"

"Undetectable Extension Charm," she explains. "Tricky, but I think I've done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here." Hermione gives the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoes like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects roll around inside of it. "Oh, damn, that'll be the books," she says, peering inside of it, "and I had it all stacked by subject... oh, well. Harry, you'd better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change."

"When did you do all of this?" Harry asks, as Ron strips off his robes.

"I told you at the Burrow, Hazel and I have had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here... I just had a feeling..."

"You're amazing, you are," Ron says, handing her his bundled-up robes.

"Thank you," Hermione says, smiling as she pushes the robes into the bag. "Please, Harry, get the cloak on!"

Harry throws his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, pulling it up over his head, disappearing from sight.

"The others - everybody at the wedding - " he says.

"We can't worry about that right now," I say, as that's what I've been telling myself. "It's you they're after, Harry, and it'll just put them in more danger to go back."

"She's right," Ron interjects. "Most of the Order was there, they'll look after everyone."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, but he still sounds worried. I can't blame them. All of us are.

"Come on, I think we ought to keep moving," Hermione says.

We move back up into the side street and onto the main road again, where a group of men on the opposite side are singing and weaving across the pavement.

"Just out of curiosity, why Tottenham Court Road?" Ron asks Hermione.

"I've no idea, it just popped into my head, but I'm sure we're safer out in the Muggle world, they wouldn't expect us to be here."

"True," Ron agrees, looking around. "But don't you feel a bit - exposed."

"Where else is there?" Hermione says, cringing as the men on the opposite side of the road start wolf-whistling at Hermione and I. I give them a death glare, wishing that we weren't surrounding by Muggles so I could hex them with less repercussions. "We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get there... I suppose we could try my parents' home, though I think there's a chance they might check there... oh, I wish they'd shut up!"

"Alright, there, you two?" the drunkest of the men opposite us yells at Hermione and I. "Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!"

"Let's go sit somewhere," Hermione says hastily, as Ron looks ready to shout something back and I shoot them a rude hand gesture. "Look, this will do, in here!"

It's a small and shabby all-night café. A light layer of grease lies on all the Formica-topped tables, but at least it's empty. I know Harry's slipped into the booth first at the sound of his footsteps, and Ron sits down next to him. This leaves Hermione and I to sit with our back to the door, and neither of us like it one bit. We glance over our shoulders so frequently, anyone else might think we have a twitch. I don't like being stationary much, as moving makes me feel like we're heading towards something, whereas sitting makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Regardless, I do know we need to sit still and think for a moment.

After a minute or two, Ron says, "You know, we're not far from the Leaky Cauldron, it's only in Charing Cross - "

"Ron, we can't!" Hermione says at once.

"Not to stay, just to find out what's going on!"

"We know what's going on! Voldemort's taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?"

"Okay, okay, it was just an idea!"

We relapse into prickly silence. The gum-chewing waitress shuffles over and Hermione orders three cappucinos; as Harry is invisible, it would look odd to order another one. A pair of burly workmen enter the café and squeeze into the next booth. As Hermione drops her voice to a whisper, I make eye contact with one of the workmen, blond and large. I smile at him, politely yet awkwardly, but he doesn't return it. Something about him seems familiar, like I've seen him before, but I don't know where. I look away quickly.

"I saw we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we're there, we could send a message to the Order."

"Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?" Ron asks.

"I've been practising and I think so," Hermione replies.

"Well, as long as it doesn't get them into trouble, though they might've been arrested already. God, that's revolting," Ron adds after one sip of the foamy, greyish coffee. The waitress had heard; she shoots Ron a nasty look as she shuffles away to take the new customers' orders. My eyes wander over to them as the blond one waves her away and she stares, affronted.

I'm still staring at them, my eyes narrowed slightly, when Ron says, "Let's get going, then, I can't drink anymore of this muck. Hermione, Hazel, have you got any Muggle money to pay for this?"

My eyes focus on the other of the two workmen, taller, dark-haired with flecks of grey in it, his face long, pale, and twisted.

"Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow," Hermione says, and I suddenly remember Hermione nearly being murdered in the Department of Mysteries, I remember me getting revenge with a wooden board, and I remember nearly being strangled last year, "I bet all the change is in the bottom," Hermione's saying, reaching for her beaded bag.

The two workmen are making identical movements, their hands going towards their pockets and I know already what they're about to do.

"Get down," I say in a low voice.

"What?" Hermione and Ron say in unison.

"GET DOWN!" I cry as the two workmen reach for their wands.

Ron, realising what's going on, lunges across the table to push Hermione sideways onto the bench, as I duck down under the table for cover. The force of the Death Eater's spell shatters the tiled wall where Ron's head had just been, and I hear Harry, still invisible, yell, " _STUPEDY!_ "

The great blond Death Eater is hit in the face by a jet of red light. He slumps sideways, unconscious. The other one, Dolohov, unable to see who had cast the spell, fires another curse at Ron. Shining black ropes fly from his wand-tip and binds Ron from head to foot - the waitress screams and runs for the door - Harry sends another Stunning Spell towards Dolohov, but the spell misses, rebounds on the window, hits the waitress, and she collapses onto the floor.

" _Expulso!_ " bellows the Death Eater, and I manage to crawl out of the way just in time for the table under which I'd been taking cover blows up. Harry, who had been standing on the table, slams into the wall, his wand leaving his hand and his Cloak slipping off of him.

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " I cry out, and I hear Hermione crying out the same thing. The force of our two spells sends him flying, falling onto the floor like a statue, his arms and legs snapping together and landing with a crunching thud under the mess of broken china, table, and coffee.

Hermione crawls out from underneath the bench, I get slowly to my feet, shaking bits of glass ashtray out of my hair and taking a deep, shuddering breath, looking around at the damage made.

" _D-Diffindo!_ " she says, pointing her want at Ron, who roars in pain as she slashes open the knee of his jeans, leaving a deep cut. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Ron, my hand's shaking!  _Diffindo!_ "

The severed ropes fall away. Ron gets to his feet, shaking his arms to regain the feeling in them. Harry, now visible again, picks up his wand and climbs over all the debris to where the large blond Death Eater is sprawled across the bench.

"I should've recognised him, he was there the night Dumbledore died," he says. He turns over the darker Death Eater with his foot; Dolohov's eyes move rapidly between the four of us.

"That's Antonin Dolohov," I say. "He was there that night, too. I should've recognised him sooner, from the wanted posters - well, that and the amount of times he's tried to murder me."

"I think the big one's Thorfinn Rowle," Ron adds.

"Never mind what they're called!" Hermione says, a little hysterically. "How did they find us? What are we going to do?"

Hermione is clearly quite panicked, but I, on the other hand, perhaps because the events have not fully registered in my mind, feel strangely calm. I look from the two Death Eaters, then around the damaged café. I walk over to the window, closing the blinds. Then I walk towards the door, locking it and turning over the sign so that the "Sorry, we're closed!" sign is facing the door.

I walk back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, as the former says, "Ron, turn out the lights."

There's complete silence in the café as Ron uses the Deluminator to plunge it into darkness. I can hear the men who had catcalled Hermione and I earlier, yelling at some other girl in the distance.

"What are we going to do with them?" Ron whispers to Harry. Then, he says, even more quietly, "Kill them? They'd kill us. They just had a good go at it now." Hermione shudders and takes a step back.

"We just need to wipe their memories," Harry says slowly. "It's better like that, it'll throw them off the scent. If we kill them, it'd be obvious that we were here."

"You're the boss," Ron says, sounding extremely relieved. "But I've never done a memory charm."

"Nor have I," Harry says.

"I have," I say. "It worked on them, I'm sure I can do it again."

"Me too," Hermione says.

I point my wand at Dolohov, as Hermione walks over to the larger Death Eaters, Rowle. I take a deep breath and say, concentrating carefully, " _Obliviate!_ " At once, Dolohov's eyes become unfocused and dreamy. Hermione does the same with Rowle.

"Brilliant!" Harry says, clapping me on the back, and I smile weakly.

"I'll take care of the waitress, you three clear up," I say, walking over to the waitress, still lying unconscious by the door.

"Clear up?" Ron says, looking around at the half-destroyed café. "Why?"

I look round at him in disbelief. "Don't you think somebody's going to wonder what happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it's just been bombed?"

"Oh, right, yeah..."

Shaking my head slightly, I grab the waitress by the ankles and drag her behind the counter, hearing Ron say, "It's no wonder I can't get my wand out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they're too tight."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Hermione hisses, as I open the door to the kitchen and drag the waitress inside, and the door closes just after I hear Hermione mutter a suggestion as to where Ron can stick his wand instead.

I point my wand at the waitress and notice her nametag, reading: DANA. Suddenly, I feel a stab of pity for this woman, and every single Muggle, caught in the middle of a way which they're not even aware. Giving my head a shake, I focus again and say, " _Obliviate!_ "

I pause for a moment, staring out the small, circular window on the kitchen door, allowing me to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione working on fixing up the café. I can see the Death Eaters still lying on the ground, and look back at Dana. I decide to wake her up and tell her to leave, knowing that if, when the three of them wake, if the Death Eaters run into her again, they might not be all that kind to her and might even just kill her just because the can. So, I point my wand at her again and say, " _Renervate!_ "

I quickly hide my wand behind my back and crouch down beside her, just as her eyes open slowly, looking around in confusion, before seeing me and sitting upright quickly, clutching her head.

"Who are you? What's going on?"

"Hey, easy," I say gently. "I think you fainted, mate. Remember, you told me you weren't feeling well? You passed out basically right after that. D'you remember that?"

"Yeah," she says slowly, frowning slightly, "yeah, I think so. But - but who are you? Are you new here?"

"The opposite, really," I say, smiling. "My names - erm - Candy, and I'm quitting. I'm taking over your shift tonight, and then I'm gone - thank God, eh?"

"Have you worked here for a while? How come I've never seen you?"

"I dunno," I shrug. "I suppose the way our shift's worked out, we just never crossed paths. Don't worry about it too much, I bet your head's still spinning from that fall you took there."

"Yeah, a bit," Dana admits, nodding slightly. She hears Harry, Ron, and Hermione's voices outside, and frowns.

"Friends of mine," I say with a shrug. "I know it's not strictly allowed, but hey, it's not like I can get in trouble. I'm leaving after tonight."

"Well - well, I still have thirty minutes left in my shift," she says, starting to get to her feet quickly, but I stop her, grabbing one of her shoulders.

"Hey, slow down," I say. "I don't think you're in any shape to keep working. I'll tell you what, I'll just start early and take over your shift, and we just won't tell the boss, so nothing'll get docked off your pay check. You go home and rest and take care of yourself, alright?"

"Are you sure?" she says slowly.

"Perfectly sure," I nod, helping her get to her feet more slowly. "You just get on home - how about you go out the back door over there - " I say, gesturing at the door at the back of the kitchen - "that way no one'll see you - and I'll take care of everything." I start leading her towards the door carefully. "You just go home and rest, and I promise, by tomorrow, it'll be like nothing ever happened, alright?"

"Well, if you're sure - " she begins uncertainly, her hand on the doorknob.

"I am," I say firmly. "Don't worry about a thing, alright? Now go home and be safe."

She nods, smiles weakly, and says, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," I say with a forced smile.

She opens the door and waves, a gesture which I return, and there's the sound of the rushing traffic until the door swings shut behind her. When it closes, the smile all but melts off my face and I lower my arm. I stand, staring at the closed door for a moment, before sighing and heading out of the kitchen. When I reach the others, I see that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had repaired the café to its original state, the Death Eaters siting in the booth again and propped up to be facing each other, still unconscious.

"I took care of the waitress," I tell them. "Wiped her memory and woke her up, told her she just fainted and to go home and rest. I think she'll be fine."

We all look over at the two Death Eaters.

"How did they find us?" Hermione says, then turns to Harry. "You - you don't think you've still got the Trace on you, do you, Harry?"

"He can't have," Ron says. "The Trace breaks at seventeen, it's Wizarding law, you can't put it on an adult."

"As far as you know," Hermione points out. "What if the Death Eaters found a way to put it on a seventeen year-old?"

"But Harry hasn't been anywhere near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who's supposed to have put the Trace back on him?"

Hermione says nothing to this.

"If I can't use magic, and you can't use magic near me, without us giving away our position - " he begins.

"We're not splitting up," I say firmly, already knowing what he's thinking. "What we need is a safe place to hide. Somewhere we can just think things over."

"Grimmauld Place," Harry says immediately.

Ron, Hermione, and I gape at him.

"Don't be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!"

"Ron's dad said they put up jinxes against him - and even if they don't work," Harry presses on, seeing that Hermione's about to argue, "so what? I swear I'd like nothing more than to meet Snape!"

"You say that now," I say, "but it'd be another story if it actually happens, because unless we killed him or held him hostage somehow - which would be really bloody difficult, because in spite of everything, you have to admit that he's a really powerful wizard - he'd either bring you or all of us to Voldemort, or he'd go and just tell him where we were, and then we'd really never be able to go back."

"But where else is there? It's the best chance we've got. Snape's only one Death Eater. If I've still got the Trace on me, we'll have whole crowds of them wherever we go."

None of us can argue, though we'd all quite like to do so. On Harry's count of three, Hermione and I reverse the spells on the two Death Eaters, but before they can do more than stir sleepily, the four of us have turned on the spot and vanished into the compressing darkness once more.

Seconds later, my lungs expand gratefully and I open my eyes. We're not standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, dilapidated houses look down on us from all sides. Number twelve is visible to us, because we had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-Keeper, and we rush towards it, checking every few yards that we're not being observed or followed. We race up the stone steps, and Harry taps the front door once with his wand. We hear a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swings open with a creak and we hurry over the threshold.

As Harry closes the door, old-fashioned gas lamps spring to life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. It looks just as I remember it: eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the walls throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long, dark curtains conceal the portrait of Sirius' mother. The only thing that appears to be out of place is the troll's leg umbrella stand, which is lying on its side as if Tonks had just knocked it over again. I had always known that this was an unpleasant place, but suddenly, perhaps because of the absence of all the Order members, perhaps because Sirius is dead, it feels more like a place of misery than ever.

"I think somebody's been in here," Hermione says, pointing at the umbrella stand.

"That could've just happened as the Order left," Ron murmurs back.

"So, where are these jinxes against Snape?" Harry asks.

"Maybe they're only activated if he shows up?" Ron suggests.

Yet we remain close together on the doormat, backs against the door, scared to move farther into the house.

"Well, we can't stay here forever," Harry says, and takes a step forward.

"Severus Snape?" Mad-Eye Moody's voice whispers out of the darkness, making all four of us jump back in fright.

"We're not Snape!" Harry croaks, just as something whooshes over me like cold air and my tongue curls backward on itself, making it impossible to speak, even if I could find the words. Before I have time to feel the inside of my mouth, however, my tongue unravels again.

By looking around, I can tell that the other three felt the same unpleasant experience. Ron is making retching noises, while Hermione says, "That m-must have b-been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!"

Gingerly, Harry takes another step forward. Something shifts in the shadows at the end of the hall, and before any of us can say a word, a figure has risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-coloured, and terrible. Hermione screams, and so does Mrs. Black, her curtain flying open. The grey figure is gliding towards us, faster and faster, its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, fleshless, lifeless, with empty eye sockets. Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it raises a wasted arm, pointing it at Harry.

"No!" Harry shouts, and though he raises his wand, he doesn't say a spell. "No! It wasn't us! We didn't kill you - " On the word 'kill,' the figure explodes in a great cloud of dust.

My eyes water and I let out a cough, but other than that, I can't move. I can hardly breathe. I want to shake and move and scream and cry, but I don't think my body is capable of doing much of that right now. I hear Ron saying, his voice trembling, "It's alr-right... it's g-gone..." and I think he's talking to Hermione, but I can't find it in me to look around and see.

Dust swirls around us like mist, and like extremely unpleasant background music in a movie, I can hear Mrs. Black continue to scream, "Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonour, taint of shame on the house of my fathers - "

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellows, pointing his wand at her, and with a bang and a burst of red sparks, the curtains swing shut again, silencing her.

Harry's yelling manages to wake my body up again, and I take a step forward to stand next to Harry, working on breathing properly now.

"That... that was..." Hermione whimpers, and I look around to see Ron helping her to her feet. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wonder when she had been on the ground in the first place.

"Yeah," Harry says, "but it wasn't really him, was it? Just something to scare Snape."

I wonder if it had worked, or if Snape has already destroyed the dusty figure the way he had the real Dumbledore, or if he would if he hasn't come here yet but will soon. Harry leads the way down the hall, and, nerves still tingling, I follow him, half-expecting some new terrible thing to reveal itself, but nothing happens except for a mouse skittering across the creaking floor.

"Before we go any farther, I think we'd better check," Hermione says, and raises her wand. " _Homenum Revelio!_ "

Nothing happens.

"Well, you've just had a big shock," Ron says kindly. "What's it supposed to do?"

"It did what it's meant to do!" Hermione says rather crossly. "That was a spell to reveal human presence, and there's nobody here except for us!"

"And old Dusty," Ron says, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen.

"Let's go upstairs," Hermione says, with a frightened look at the same spot, and she leads the way up the creaking steps to the drawing room of the first floor.

Hermione waves her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, the, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she sits down on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Ron crosses the room to the window and moves the heavy, velvet curtains an inch.

"Can't see anyone out there," he informs us. "And you'd think if Harry still had the trace on him, they'd have followed us here. I know they can't get in the house, but - what's up, Harry?"

Harry gives a cry of pain, clutching onto his forehead. Clearly, his scar's hurting. And that might mean he's seen or felt something that Voldemort is experiencing.

"What did you see?" Ron says, advancing on him. "Did you see him at my place?"

"No, I just felt anger - he's really angry - "

"But that could be at the Burrow," Ron says loudly. "What else? Didn't you see anything? Was he cursing someone?"

"No, I just felt anger - I couldn't tell - "

"Your scar again? But what's going on? I thought that connection had closed?" Hermione says, sounding frightened.

"It did, for a while," Harry replies. "I - I think it's started opening again whenever he loses control, that's how it used to be - "

"But then you've got to close your mind!" Hermione says shrilly. "Harry, Dumbledore didn't want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that's why you're supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember - "

"Yeah, I do remember, thanks," Harry says through gritted teeth (due to pain or annoyance, I can't tell).

He turns his back to us. I hesitate slightly, before walking towards him, trying to find something comforting to say. Before I can, Hermione shrieks. I draw my wand quickly and spin around to see a silver Patronus soar through the drawing room window and land on the floor in front of us, where it solidifies into a weasel and speaks in Mr. Weasley's voice.

"Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched."

The Patronus dissolves into nothingness. I let out a sigh of relief, feeling a weight off my chest at the words. Ron lets out a noise between a whimper and a groan and drops onto the sofa. Hermione joins him, gripping onto his arm.

"They're alright, they're alright!" Hermione whispers, and Ron half-laughs and hugs her.

"Harry," he says, over Hermione's shoulder, "I - "

"It's not a problem," Harry says. "It's your family, 'course you were worried. I'd feel the same way." He pauses for a second, then adds, "I do feel the same way."

"I don't want to be on my own," Hermione says suddenly. "Can we use the sleeping bags I've brought and camp here?"

Ron and I agree. Harry says nothing, but then mutters, "Bathroom," and hurries out of the room. There's a moment of silence, before Ron speaks.

"I'm not the only one that thinks it's not a bathroom break that's got him like that, right?"

"No, but after everything that's happened, can you blame him?" I reply. It's only been one night, but so much has happened that it feels like it's been weeks. "It's been a really rough night, to say the least, and it's hard enough to close your mind without all this stuff happening."

Hermione bites her lip. "I'm just worried about him. We've all seen the amount of damage his connection with Voldemort can do!"

"I agree with you, Hermione," I say, sitting down on the sofa opposite them, "but badgering him won't help. Occlumency is at its easiest when there are no stresses or distractions in a person's life, so you might be able to understand why it's so difficult for him, and putting more on him won't help."

"How do you know so much about it?" Ron says, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Stumbled across some information about it," I shrug, which is a lie. After I had found out the real reason why Snape stopped giving Harry Occlumency lessons, I took it upon myself to find as much information about Occlumency and Legilimency as I could, so that I could help Harry of the time ever came. However, I won't admit this, because I don't need anyone, especially Harry, thinking that I'm acting like he can't handle himself. That wouldn't go over well. Silence falls after this.

I curl up on the sofa, staring blankly at a patch on the floor. I pull out the Cross of Elements and watch it switch between the four elements: fire, air, water, and earth. I start to wonder why it's always in that order, but with no answers in sight, I can't dwell on it for too long before my mind starts to wander.

My hand goes up to the charm necklace Fred had given to me, and I go through each of the charms, my heart feeling heavier with each one, especially those that Fred had given to me. Fred. Passionate, loving, caring, persevering Fred. He tells me he loves me, that he'll never give up on me, and only minutes after I've left him. He opens up to me, in an attempt to get closer to me, and I move farther away in return, my emotions as hidden away from him as ever. I bring one of the charms up to my lips and hold it there, thinking that Fred, more than anything, deserves to get over me and find someone who could love him better than I ever could.

I just wish I could decide whether I'm hoping for or dreading it.


	11. Kreacher's Tale

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Eleven: Kreacher's Tale**

 

"Severus Snape."

It's Mad-Eye's voice whispering the name, but it's Dumbledore's mouth that's moving, as I watch him fall helplessly from the Astronomy Tower, his body limp and lifeless. Dumbledore turns into Mad-Eye, and I'm back on the Thestral with Bill in front of me, watching Mad-Eye fall off his broom, just as lifeless as Dumbledore had been. Mad-Eye turns into Dumbledore, and Dumbledore into Mad-Eye, switching so rapidly I can barely tell who is who at any time, and before I can make sense of it, they turn into dust and explode. The dust is everywhere, getting in my eyes and my mouth and nose and suffocating me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it's useless, it's everywhere -

"... then I declare you bonded for life."

I open my eyes at the sound of applause. I'm no longer in the air, flying on the Thestral, but in the marquee at the Burrow during Bill and Fleur's wedding. But it's not Bill and Fleur's wedding anymore, because it's me standing in the front, and when I look down, I see myself wearing a white dress. In front of me is Fred, beaming down at me. He leans down and kisses me, and I kiss him back eagerly, forgetting all the people watching and wrapping my arms around him.

Time seems to pass unnaturally quickly, and soon I'm dancing with Fred. His arms are around my waist, mine around his neck, and we smile peacefully at each other as we sway to the slow music playing.

"I love you, you know," he tells me.

"I do know," I say, because I do. It's all so very obvious to me that I can't believe there was ever a time that I didn't know.

"Do you love me back?"

I don't answer right away. Suddenly, his face seems slightly blurred, and even as I touch him, he doesn't feel real anymore. Then, a masked Death Eater appears between us, blocking me from him.

Images flicker in my mind at a rapid pace, as though fighting for my attention. Dumbledore falling from the Astronomy Tower, Bill being attacked by Fenrir Greyback, Mad-Eye falling lifelessly off of his broom, the looks on Fred's face was I broke up with him, Elia waving me goodbye while her mother looks on disapprovingly, the look Candy and I exchanged just before I wiped her memory, Bill and Fleur beaming at each other during the ceremony, Fred telling me to stay with him, Dana the waitress waving at me before she leaves, Harry clutching his scar in pain, the Cross of Elements transforming on my finger. They all flash in my mind repeatedly, threatening to overwhelm me completely, but then it all ends, focusing instead on Fred being dragged away by two Death Eaters. He calls to me, wants me to help, and I want to, but I can't even move.

"STOP IT!" I yell, apparently all I'm capable of doing. "LEAVE HIM ALONE - "

On the word 'alone,' everything around me explodes in a cloud of dust, and it's only me, surrounded by a swirl of dust.

I wake up with a gasp, bolting upright. I look around, panting, and as I look around at the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, calm slowly starts to settle on me as I realise that it was a dream. I look down at my green sleeping bag, at my hands gripping onto it, breathing deeply.

I look up and around the room. I can see a chink of sky, the cool, clear blue of watered ink, between the heavy curtains. The room is silent except for the sound of deep, slow breathing. I look over at the dark figures around me. In a fit of gallantry, Ron and Harry had insisted that Hermione and I take the two sofas, so that Ron's figure is below me and Hermione's on the same level as me. Hermione's arm curves to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron's. I get the distinct impression that they'd fallen asleep holding hands. Thinking of Fred, I get an unexpected surge of loneliness. Harry's gone, his sleeping bag empty, but I try to shake off my worry. Perhaps he'd just gotten up earlier and was dressing now. However, it's difficult to feel reassured.

I lie back down, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, it was the ceiling of the Burrow, of Ginny's bedroom, that I had been staring up at instead. It hadn't been perfect, it hadn't been the most secure place I could be, but I felt at home, and I sure as hell felt safer there.

Unable to stand dwelling upon it for longer, I finally get to my feet and walk over to the bathroom. When I return to the drawing room after showering, brushing my teeth, and dressing, I find that Harry still hasn't returned. It's then that I can't stop myself from feeling worried. I know I might just be paranoid, but the fact that Snape might walk in at any moment doesn't exactly soothe me. After a moment of hesitation, I decide to wake Ron and Hermione. I don't know what's stopping me, but I feel like doing so would be intruding on something that I'm not welcome.

I wake Hermione first, knowing she'll be the easiest to wake up. I'm right. All it takes is a light tap on the shoulder to wake her up. She jumps, her eyes wide open, looking fearful for a moment, before realising that it's me and relaxing.

"Oh, Hazel," she says breathlessly, sounding relieved. "What is it?"

"Probably nothing," I reply, "but just in case..."

I get down on my knees to wake up Ron. It takes a little more effort, but after shaking him enough times, he finally wakes up, opening his eyes slowly and looking at me through slightly squinted eyes.

"Hazel?" he says groggily. "What is it?"

I get back to my feet and look to the both of them. "Well, it might just be me being paranoid, but... Harry's not here. I know it could be nothing, but since Snape could come in at any moment, I'm just really worried. I'm going to go looking for him, but I just wanted you to know so that you could look, too, and you wouldn't think I disappeared, too."

They both get to their feet immediately.

"You don't think anything bad has happened?" Hermione says worriedly.

"Let's hope not," I say.

"We'd better get looking," Ron says bracingly.

While Ron and Hermione dress quickly, I start looking for Harry. On the second floor, I open the door of the bedroom that Ron and Harry had shared during the summer before our fifth year, thinking he might be there, but the room is empty. I look over at the portrait of Sir Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius' great-great grandfather and former Headmaster of Hogwarts, and find him standing there, looking at me disdainfully.

"Well, are you going to stand there all day or are you going to do something?" he says rudely.

I fight off the feeling of annoyance, saying, "Have you seen Harry in here?"

"Can't say I have," Sir Phineas replied indifferently. "What are you lot even doing back here? Don't you think it might be dangerous for you now? Are you all that stupid or just care for your lives so little?"

"I could ask you the same," I fire back. "Why do you come back in here when you know all your descendants are gone?"

A low blow, maybe, but I couldn't help it.

"I'll have you know," Sir Phineas says, trying to sound indifferent, but his voice sounds far too stiff for me to buy it, "that I had no intention of coming here, but I heard your loud footfalls and got curious. In the future, try to be more quiet, won't you? Your suitors might find it endearing, but I don't."

I stand there for a moment longer, about to say something back, but then I stop myself, shake my head, and walk out of the room. I continue on my search for him, calling his name and looking inside rooms occasionally, but I get no reply and I can't find him. When I reach the topmost landing, I start to get desperate. I look around, about to call Harry's name, until I see a nameplate reading, "Sirius," and freeze. I walk over slowly to the door, knowing, somehow, that he must be in here.

I don't know why I knock this time, since I've barged in every other time, but I do, saying gently, "Harry?"

"I'm in here!" he calls back. "Come in!"

I open the door and walk inside, finding him sitting on what must have been Sirius' old bed. He looks at the look on my face and frowns.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "What's happened?"

"We woke up and had no idea where you were, that's what," I reply. I turn and shout over my shoulder, "Ron, Hermione, it's alright! I've found him!"

From several floors below, I hear Hermione's relieved voice saying, "Thank goodness!"

And then there's Ron, yelling in annoyance, "Good! Tell him from me he's a git!"

I turn back to Harry and say solemnly, "Ron says you're a git."

"I heard," Harry says.

"Just for future reference, don't just disappear like that, Harry, we were so worried," I say.

When he says nothing to this, I look around at the ransacked room. Paper, books, and small objects are scattered across the carpet. Regardless, the room is spacious and must have been handsome once. The bed Harry is sitting on is large with a carved wooden headboard. The teenage Sirius had covered the place with so many pictures and posters that very little of the wall's silvery-grey silk is visible. I assume his parents could not remove the Permanent Sticking Charm he had put on the wall, because it seems to me that Sirius had gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There are several large Gryffindor banners, just to underline the difference between him and the rest of his Slytherin family. There are several pictures of Muggle motorcycles and (I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes at this one) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. I can tell that they're Muggles because they remain quite stationary in their photos, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This is in contrast with the only Wizarding photograph on the walls, which is a photo of five Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.

With a leap of pleasure, I see my father in the middle of the picture, with his dark black hair and bright blue eyes. I had always know I look exactly like my mum, but I'd never known that the resemblance with my father was until now. The way he smiles, the way he laughs. He looks just like me when he does - or I look just like him, I suppose. To my father's left was James, looking exactly like Harry with his untidy dark hair that sticks up in the back, and squared glasses on his face. On my father's right was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face much younger and happier than I had ever seen it while he was alive. To Sirius' right stands Peter Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in the coolest of gangs, with the much admired rebels James, Sirius, and Brandon had been. Standing on James' left is Remus, even then a little shabby-looking, but he has the same air of being pleasantly surprised at being liked or included. Though I have to wonder, do I only see these things in the picture because I know that's how it had been, or was it truly that evident?

I turn back to Harry. Though I know it's true, I say, "So this was Sirius' old room?" Harry nods, and my eyes flicker over at the Muggle women in bikinis, before I say, "How... tasteful."

He grins. "Don't like it, do you?"

"Well, it's definitely Sirius," I say, sitting next to him on the bed.

"Here, look what I've just found," he says, handing me a crumpled, handwritten piece of parchment.

I smooth it out and read it carefully.

 

_Dear Padfoot,_

_Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going._

_We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell - also Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard._

_Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore_

 

I reach the end of the page and feel a sort of heaviness spread through me. I look up at Harry, who had been watching me read.

"Harry, I..."

"And then there's this, too," Harry says, handing me a torn photograph.

It's a picture of a dark-haired baby zooming around on a toy broom, and what must've been James' legs chasing after him. I smile slightly at the sight, unable to help myself.

"I've been looking for the rest of the letter," he continues, "but it's not here."

I glance around the room.

"Did you make all this mess, or was it already like this when you got here?" I ask.

"Someone had searched before me."

"I thought so," I say. "Every room I'd looked in on the way up here has been searched, from the looks of it. What were they after, do you think?"

"Information on the Order, if it was Snape," Harry replies.

"But you'd think he'd have all he needed. I mean, he was  _in_ the Order, wasn't he?"

"Well, then," Harry says, "what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?"

"Who?"

"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of - "

" _A History of Magic,_ " I suddenly remember, now interested. "So your parents knew her? She was a really big magical historian."

"And she's still alive," Harry says, "and she lives in Godric's Hollow. Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore's family, too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn't she?"

I hesitate slightly, waiting until Harry has looked away to tuck the letter and the photograph in the pouch around his neck to speak.

"Look, Harry, I get why you'd want to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore, too, but... but it doesn't help us with finding any Horcruxes, does it?" I point out. When he doesn't answer, I keep talking, "I know you really want to go, and I wish we could, really, but... after the Death Eaters found us so easily yesterday, I don't think it's a good idea to go where your parents were buried, they'd expect you to go there."

"It's not just that," Harry says, still not looking at me. "Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth..."

He tells me about what Muriel had told him about Dumbledore at the wedding. About his sister dying and his brother blaming him for her death, about Bathilda Bagshot knowing and being close with the Dumbledores, about the Dumbledores living in Godric's Hollow. When he finishes, I say, "I get why that might've upset you, Harry, but - "

"I'm not upset," Harry says. "I'd just like to know whether it's true or not - "

"Harry, do you really think you'll get the truth from people like Muriel or Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them of all people? You knew Dumbledore!"

"I thought I did," he mutters.

"But you remember how much truth there was in everything Rita Skeeter wrote about you, don't you? Doge is right, you can't let these people ruin your memories of Dumbledore!"

He looks away from me, and I refrain from sighing aloud. Instead, I say bracingly, "Let's go down to the kitchen, yeah? Get something for breakfast."

"Yeah, sure," Harry says distractedly.

I get up and lead him out of Sirius' bedroom and down the hall. I glance at all the doors as we pass, and stop dead after walking past one of them. I walk back to it and read the plaque on the door:  _Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black_.

I feel traces of excitement, though I'm not entirely sure why. I read the sign again, and suddenly it hits me like a load of bricks. Regulus Arcturus Black. I almost can't believe that it was this easy. I look around to get Harry to look at the plaque, only to find that he's a full staircase below me.

"Harry," I say, my voice surprisingly calm, "come back up here."

"What's up?" he calls back.

"Just come here," I hear his footsteps hurrying back up the steps as I keep staring at the plaque. When he's beside me again I say, "Regulus Arcturus Black."

"What?" Harry says.

"Regulus Arcturus Black," I repeat, looking over at him. "R.A.B. It's Sirius' brother."

His eyes widen, looking shocked. But then, after a pause, he says, "It makes sense. He was a Death Eater. Sirius told me about him. He joined when he was really young and got cold feet and tried to leave - so they killed him."

"It really does fit, then," I say. "If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, so that must've been how he found out about the Horcrux. That must've been what made him change his mind and want to bring Voldemort down."

We look at each other for a moment, before hurrying over to the staircase, leaning over the barrier and yelling, "RON! HERMIONE! Get up here quick!"

Ron and Hermione appear, panting, a minute later, wands at the ready.

"What is it? What's happened?" Hermione says quickly.

"I swear, if it's giant spiders or something again, can I  _please_ eat breakfast before - " He frowns at the sign on Regulus' door, at which I'm pointing. Hermione gasps, getting it quickly, but Ron still looks confused.

"What? That was Sirius' brother, wasn't it? Regulus Arcturus... Regulus... R.A.B.! The locket - you don't reckon - ?"

"Let's find out," Harry says, pushing the door. It's locked.

Hermione points her wand at the handle and says, " _Alohomora!_ "

There's a click, and the door swings open. We move over the threshold together, looking around. Regulus' room is slightly smaller than Sirius', though still contains that sense of former grandeur. However, where Sirius tried to highlight his different from the rest of his family, Regulus had striven to show the opposite. The Slytherin colours of emerald and silver are everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest is painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, " _Toujours Pur_." Beneath this is a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crosses the room to examine them.

"They're all about Voldemort," she says. "Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before joining the Death Eaters..."

A little puff of dust rises from the bedcovers as she sits down to read the newspaper clippings. I walk over to the desk and start looking through the papers and books, trying to find some sort of hint. Harry looks over all the photographs, and Ron is on his hands and knees, looking under the wardrobe.

"He played Seeker," I hear Harry say.

"What?" comes Hermione's vague voice.

"He's sitting in the middle of the front row, that's where the Seeker... never mind." After a while, I hear Hermione says, "There's an easier way to do this," and look around just as she raises her wand and says, " _Accio Locket!_ "

Nothing happens. Ron, who had moved on to searching the folds of the faded curtains, looks disappointed.

"Is that it, then? It's not here?"

"Oh, it could be here, but under counter-enchantments," Hermione says. "Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know."

"Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave," Harry says.

"How are we supposed to find it, then?" Ron asks.

"We search manually," Hermione says.

"Damn, can you believe we didn't think of that one?" I murmur, sitting back down at the desk and continuing to look through the drawers.

We comb every inch of the room for more than an hour, but finally have to come to the conclusion that the locket, or any hint of its whereabouts, is not here.

The sun has fully risen now, its light dazzling us even through the grimy landing windows.

"It could be somewhere else in the house, though," Hermione says in a rallying tone, as we walk back downstairs. As Ron and Harry get more discouraged, Hermione and I seem to get more determined. "Whether he managed to destroy it or not, he'd have wanted to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn't he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place, even though we didn't realise it at... at..."

Harry, Ron, and I look over at her. She's standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of someone who had just been Obliviated. Her eyes have eve drifted out of focus.

"... at the time," she finishes in a whisper.

"Something wrong?" Ron asks.

"There was a locket."

"What?" Harry, Ron, and I say at once.

"In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we... we..."

Suddenly, I remember it, feeling my stomach drop. I had even handled the thing as we each passed it around, trying to pry it open. Of course we could never do it, of course... it had ended up being tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and a music box that made everyone sleepy...

"Kreacher nicked loads of stuff from us," Harry says. "He had a whole stash of it in his cupboard in the kitchen. C'mon."

He runs down the steps two at a time, the rest of us thundering along behind him. We make so much noise that we wake the portrait of Sirius' mother as we pass through the hall.

"Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!" she screams after us as we dash down into the basement kitchen and slam the door behind us. Harry runs the length of the room, skids to a halt at Kreacher's cupboard, and wrenches the door open. There's a nest of dirty old blankets where the house-elf had once slept, but they're not glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing is an old copy of  _Nature's Nobility: A Wizard Genealogy._ A dead mouse falls out and rolls dismally across the floor. Ron groans and throws himself into a chair; Hermione closes her eyes; and I lean against the wall, sighing.

"It's not over yet," Harry says determinedly, and yells, "Kreacher!"

There's a loud crack and the house-elf that Harry had reluctantly inherited from Sirius appears out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace. Tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off of him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his bat-like ears. He's still wearing the filthy rag in which we've first met him, and the contemptuous look on his face as he looks at Harry shows that his attitude toward his change of ownership has changed no more than his attire.

"Master," croaks Kreacher in his bullfrog voice, bowing low and muttering to his knees, "back in my Mistress' old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and Knight and the Mudblood - "

"I forbid you to call anyone 'blood-traitor' or 'Mudblood,'" Harry growls. "I've got a question for you and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?"

"Yes, Master," Kreacher says, bowing low again. I see his lips moving soundlessly, no doubt framing the insults he's no longer allowed to say aloud.

"Two years ago," Harry begins, and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, "there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"

There's a silence, in which Kreacher stands up straight to look Harry full in the face. Then he says, "Yes."

"Where is it now?" Harry says excitedly, as I straighten up eagerly.

Kreacher closes his eyes, as though he can't bear our reactions to his answer.

"Gone."

"Gone?" Harry echoes, and I can feel my excitement floating out of me. "What d'you mean, gone?"

The elf shivers and sways.

"Kreacher," Harry says fiercely, "I order you - "

"Mundungus Fletcher," the elf croaks, his eyes shut tightly. "Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella and Miss Cissy's pictures, my Mistress' gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and - and - "

Kreacher is gulping for air now. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes fly open and he lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

" - and the locket, Master Regulus' locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed his orders!"

As Kreacher reaches for the poker standing at the grate, Harry launches himself on the elf, flattening him. Hermione's scream mingles with Kreacher's, but Harry yells over them, "Kreacher, I order you to stay still!"

The elf freezes and Harry releases him slowly. Kreacher lies flat on the stone cold floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.

"Harry, let him up!" Hermione whispers.

"So he can beat himself up with the poker?" Harry snorts, kneeling beside the elf. "I don't think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: how do you know Mundungus stole the locket?"

"Kreacher saw him!" the elf gasps, as tears pour over his snout and into his mouth full of greying teeth. "Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard full of Kreacher's treasures. Kreacher tried to tell the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus l-laughed and ran..."

"You called the locket 'Master Regulus,''" Harry says. "Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!"

The elf sits up, curls into a ball, places his wet face between his knees, and begins to rock backwards and forwards. When he speaks, his voice is muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

"Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress' heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked over the Dark Lord, who was going to bring wizards out of hiding to rule Muggles and Muggle-borns... and when he was sixteen, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So happy, so proud, so proud to serve...

"And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus had always liked Kreacher. and Master Regulus said, he said..."

The old elf rocks harder than ever.

"... he said the Dark Lord requires an elf."

"Voldemort needed an elf?" Harry repeats, looking around at Ron, Hermione, and I, all of us just as confused as he is.

"Oh, yes," Kreacher moans. "And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honour, Master Regulus had said, an honour for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord had ordered him to do... and then to c-come home."

Kreacher rocks faster still, his breaths coming in sobs.

"So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were going to do, but took Kreacher to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake. There was a boat..."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Though I had never been there, Kreacher's story, along with what Harry had told me about his adventure to this same cave, makes me feel like I was there myself.

"There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it..." the elf quakes from head to foot.

"Kreacher drank, and as he drank he saw terrible things... Kreacher's insides burned... Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed... he made Kreacher drink all of the potion... he dropped the locket into the basin... he filled it with more potion... and then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island."

I can see it happening. I can see Voldemort's white, snake-like face vanishing into the darkness, his red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf whose death would occur within seconds, due to the effects of the potion... but I can't see how Kreacher could've survived from there.

"Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the water's edge and drank from the black lake... and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface...

"How did you get away?" Harry whispers.

Kreacher raises his head and looks at Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes, saying, "Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back."

Harry looks confused, but I understand now. A house-elf had magic that was different from a wizard's, meaning that he was able to Disapparate where Harry and Dumbledore couldn't. And Kreacher had orders from Regulus to come back. And a house-elf always obeys orders.

"I know - but how did you escape the Inferi?" Harry says.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," Kreacher repeats, not seeming to understand.

"I know, but - "

"It's obvious, isn't it, Harry?" Ron says. "He Disapparated!"

"But... you couldn't Apparate in or out of that cave," Harry says, "otherwise Dumbledore - "

"Elf magic isn't like wizard's magic, is it?" Ron says. "I mean, they can Apparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can't."

There's a silence at this, before Hermione says, her voice icy, "Of course, Voldemort wouldn't have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice... it would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn't."

"The house-elf's highest law is his master's bidding," Kreacher says. "Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home..."

"Well, then, you did what you were told, didn't you?" Hermione says kindly. "You didn't disobey at all!" Kreacher shakes his head, rocking faster than ever.

"So what happened when you got back?" Harry says. "What did Regulus say when you told him what happened?"

"Master Regulus was very, very worried," Kreacher croaks. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then... it was a little while later... Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell... and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord..."

"And he made you drink the potion?" Harry says, disgusted.

But Kreacher shakes his head and weeps. Hermione's hands leap to her mouth, seemingly understanding something. I look at Kreacher's shaking body and think of what he had said earlier: " _Master Regulus had always liked Kreacher..._ " I understand. Regulus had sacrificed himself. He had drank all of the potion and had eventually been dragged under and killed by the Inferi...

"Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had," Kreacher said, tears pouring down his face. "And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch lockets..." Kreacher's sobs come in great rasps now, and I have to concentrate hard to understand him.

"And he ordered - Kreacher to leave - without him. And he told Kreacher - to go home - and to never tell my Mistress - what he had done - but to destroy - the first locket. And he drank - all the potion - and Kreacher swapped the lockets - and watched... as Master Regulus... was dragged beneath the water... and..."

"Oh, Kreacher!" Hermione says, crying. She drops to her knees beside the elf and tries to hug him. At once, he's on his feet, cringing away from her, repulsed.

"The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?"

"I told you not to call her 'Mudblood'!" Harry snarls, but Kreacher is already punishing himself. He falls to the ground and bangs his forehead against the floor.

"Stop him - stop him!" Hermione cries. "Oh, don't you see how sick it is, the way they have to obey?"

"Kreacher - stop, stop!" Harry shouts.

The elf lies on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already forming on his pallid forehead where he had hit himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. I can't remember the last time I'd ever seen someone so pitiful.

"So you brought the locket back home," Harry says relentlessly. "And you tried to destroy it?"

"Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it," Kreacher moans. "Kreacher tried everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work... so many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside of it, but it would not open... Kreacher would punish himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, he could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-family what had happened in the c-cave..."

Kreacher begins to sob so hard that there are no more coherent words. Hermione is still crying, but she doesn't dare touch him again. Even Ron, who had been quite vocal in his distaste for Kreacher, looks troubled. Harry sits back on his heels and shakes his head. Looking down at the elf, I think that I never imagined I'd ever feel sorry for Kreacher, yet here I am.

"I don't understand you, Kreacher," Harry says finally. "Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died trying to bring him down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Bellatrix and Narcissa and pass information to Voldemort through them..."

"Harry, Kreacher doesn't think like that," Hermione says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "He's a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment. What Voldemort did to Kreacher probably wasn't that uncommon. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to people who are kind to him, Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you're going to say," Hermione continues, when Harry opens his mouth to protest, "that Regulus changed his mind... but he does't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus' family was safest if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was protecting them all."

"Sirius - "

"Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry," I say firmly, speaking for the first time since Harry had summoned Kreacher, "and don't you look at me like that, because you know it's true. Kreacher had been alone for such a long time when Sirius came to live here again, he probably wanted a bit of the affection he used to get. I'm sure the 'Miss Cissy' and 'Miss Bella' are very different from the Narcissa and Bellatrix we know and were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, and it's like Hermione said, he's loyal to people who are kind to him, so he did them a favour and told them what they wanted to know. Hermione did say wizards would pay for how we treat house-elves, and I guess Voldemort did. And, sadly, so did Sirius."

Harry says nothing to this, and the both of us turn back to Kreacher sobbing on the floor.

"Kreacher," Harry says after a while, "when you feel up to it... er, please sit up."

It's several minutes before Kreacher hiccups himself into silence. Then he pushes himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a child.

"Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something," Harry says, glancing at Hermione, as though for assistance, but the change in his tone had seemed to impress her. She smiles encouragingly. "Kreacher, I want you, please to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find where the locket - where Master Regulus' locket it. It's really important. We want to finish what he started, we want to - er - ensure that he didn't die in vain."

Kreacher drops his fists to look up at Harry.

"Find Mundungus Fletcher?" he croaks.

"And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place," Harry says. "Do you think you could do that for us?" As Kreacher nods and gets to his feet, Harry seems to get a sudden idea. He pulls out Hagrid's purse and takes out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.

"Kreacher, I'd - er - like you to have this," he says, pressing the locket into the elf's hands. "This belonged to Regulus and I'm sure he'd want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you - "

"Overkill, mate," Ron says, as the elf takes one look at the locket, lets out a howl of shock and misery, and throws himself onto the ground.

"Definite overkill," I mutter.

It takes nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who's so overcome over being presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he's too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he's able to totter a few steps, we all accompany him to his cupboard, watch him tuck the locket safely between the dirty blankets, and assure him that we'll make its protection their top priority while he's away. He then makes three low bows to Harry, Ron, and I, and even gives a funny little spasm in Hermione's direction that I think is an attempt at a respectful salute ( _Well, progress is progress,_ I think), before Disapparating once more with the usual loud crack.


	12. Wait

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twelve: Wait**

 

"I missed you. A lot. I'm really glad you're here. I thought I was going to go mad..."

Hazel's staring up at him, all big brown eyes and an earnest expression on her face. And Dumbledore's tomb was lying not far away and Fred's heart was heavy with the loss, but here was Hazel, her arms wrapped around him, and just for a moment, he felt at peace. The sun was shining on her, so that she seemed to glow, and before the sun shining so brilliantly felt like a mockery of Dumbledore, but now it felt right.

He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, only no sound came out. Haze's face blurred, and before he knew it, everything had changed. They were no longer standing by the Great Lake at Dumbledore's funeral, but at the Burrow, away from the marquee where Bill and Fleur were having their wedding. And there was the light from the moon and the lanterns in the distance, but more than anything, Hazel was surrounded now by darkness. She wasn't staring at him anymore, her gaze repeatedly flickering to the ground.

"Fred, I want you to be happy. I'm ending this so you can be happy, so that once you move on from me, if I die, you'll still be okay."

He reached out to touch her, hold her, try to comfort her, but he couldn't reach her. She was close to him, but he just couldn't reach her. It went black, and he couldn't see anything at all, much less her, and when the darkness disappeared, she was gone.

Fred bolted upright in bed, looking around wildly until he realised that he was in his and George's room in the Burrow, not at Hogwarts, and not outside. Hazel was not here, she was gone, having left with Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

His posture slumped and he looked down blankly at his hands. He could practically feel her touch him, see her smile at him, hear her laugh, even though she could have been a million miles away. He wondered, for a moment, if he would ever hear, see, or feel any of those things again. If they did both come out of this war in one peace, would Hazel still want him? After all the stress he must have put her through the night of the wedding, all the fear and worry that she must associate with him now, would she even want to go back to him after it's all done? Or would Fred just serve as a reminder to her of all terrible events of the war? He soon forced the thought out of his mind, knowing that dwelling on the subject would doubtlessly drive him insane.

He falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and letting out a sigh. What had he been playing at, just dumping the fact that he was in love with her on her just like that? No wonder Hazel had reacted the way she did, how could he blame her?

Of course, he knew why he had done, though. Because, to him, that hadn't been the first time he had told her he loved her. He had done it once before, at Dumbledore's funeral. Hazel was about to leave to join Harry, Ron, and Hermione to talk about - well, whatever they always talked about on their own - but before she had left, she had looked at him, with the sun shining on her and the breeze blowing about her hair and her dress in that way that made her seem almost ethereal, and something had apparently come over her, because she flung her arms around him and hugged him surprisingly tightly. He hugged her back, tangling his fingers in her hair, and he hadn't been able to help it. He whispered it, "I love you," quietly, and Hazel hadn't said anything, hadn't tensed up or jumped away from him, so he figured his words had been lost to the wind. Saying it once had been a weight off his chest, even though Hazel herself hadn't heard it, and so the second time he said it, he hardly even thought about it. By the time he did think about it, the words were already out of his mouth.

It was a weird sort or irony, he decided. In his attempt to reach out to her and get closer to her, he was pretty sure all he had done was drive a wedge further between them, and he had started to think, rather fearfully, that the damage was permanent.

He glanced over at his bedside table, at the photograph of him and Hazel standing and laughing together. He had his arm around her waist, and she was beaming up at him. Fred picked up the picture and stared at it as the Hazel in the photograph went up on tiptoe to kiss the Fred in the photograph on the cheek, causing the Fred in the photograph to take her face in his hands and kiss her full on the mouth. Sighing, he put the photograph back on the table and wondered where Hazel was now.

"Something on your mind, Freddie?" came George's voice, making Fred jump.

"Merlin, George!" Fred said, sitting up straight and looking over at his twin, lying in his own bed and looking at Fred with an oddly knowing look on his face. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"You should've been more alert," George retorted easily, propping himself up on his elbows.

"How long have you been awake?" Fred asked.

"However long you've been awake," he replied. "Couldn't sleep over the sound of your pining."

"Very funny," Fred said, lying down on his back again. "Why are you awake, though?"

"Just couldn't sleep," George shrugged. "I've been finding it difficult since - well - the wedding."

"Me too, Georgie," Fred breathed. "Me too."

"Yeah, but I expect you've got more reasons to be like that than the Death Eaters," George said, that knowing expression back on his face.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Fred, don't treat me like I'm stupid," George scoffed. "I've just watched you stare at that picture of you and Hazel looking like a lost puppy.  _And_ I witnessed you staring at Hazel all throughout the wedding,  _and_ I watched you two leave the marquee, looking really upset, so I know you two didn't want to be alone for more pleasant reasons. Something happened between you two that night, and it's got you torn up."

Fred was silent for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, before saying, "I might've accidentally told her at the wedding that I love her."

Fred was still staring at the ceiling, but he knew George had just looked over at him in disbelief.

"How the hell do you accidentally tell someone that you love them?" he demanded.

"It just - slipped out," Fred said, rather pathetically. Knowing George was still giving him that disbelieving look, he added, "Look, it's a lot easier than you might think."

"Alright, then," George said, a hint of disbelief in his voice still. "So, you let it slip to Hazel that you're madly in love with her. Right. So how did she react, then? Not well, I imagine."

"That's a bit of an understatement," he muttered. "Well, it all ended up going back to why she broke up with me, didn't it? Said she was leaving for who knows how long and that she didn't want me to wait for her or end up getting hurt if... if something ended up... happening to her. I tried to fix things, to make it better, but I think all I've done is made it worse between us." Fred rubbed his face blearily. "Not that I can really blame her... telling her I loved her just freaked her out, I know it did."

"The war just has her scared, Freddie," George said, after a moment of silence. "And she shows fear a little differently. She doesn't like admitting to it, she likes trying to do something about it, trying to fix things, and I bet she thinks breaking up with you would fix things for you if something happened to her. When this is all over, I'm sure she'll want to get back together with you, and in her own time, she'll say she loves you back."

"Will she, though?" Fred said doubtfully. "All that stress I put on her, and right before she left, too... what if she just associates everything that's happening with me?"

"She won't," George responded confidently. "You're the one who made all of this easier for her."

"How d'you know?" Fred asked, confused. "Did she tell you?"

"She never had to," George replied. "You could just  _tell_. Everyone could - except for you, apparently."

"How?" he demanded.

"Come on, Fred," George said, and Fred looked over to see him looking rather exasperated at this point. "Every time she looked at you her whole face lit up like a Christmas tree. The way she looked at you, the way she talked to you or about you, there's no doubt about it, mate. She loves you, even if she doesn't know it yet."

"But what can I do about it?" Fred said helplessly. "To make it easier for her, to make it feel like I'm not forcing her into anything or anything like that?"

"Well, did you make sure that she knew that you weren't forcing her into anything and that she could do everything when she was ready to?" George replied, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah," Fred replied.

"Then nothing," George replied. "You let her know how you felt, you told her that she could do everything when she was ready, and now all you do is wait for her to  _be_ ready. The rest is up to her. But give it time, because it will happen soon enough. It's rare to find people who love each other the way you two do. Trust me, Freddie, she loves you."

"Thanks, mate," Fred says, after a long silence. "Look, you should get some sleep. I'll try to keep my pining as quiet as possible so you can."

George laughed, but said, "You sure you're alright?"

"Not really," he replied, knowing he couldn't lie to George. "But I like to think I will be soon enough. Go on to bed, don't worry about me."

"Are you - "

" _Yes_ ," Fred insisted, knowing was George was going to say, "I'm perfectly sure. Now go back to sleep before I hex you."

"I guess we all show love in different ways," George said, raising his eyebrows but grinning. "Goodnight, Fred. Try to get some sleep, yourself."

"Goodnight," Fred said, saying nothing to George's last statement, knowing he probably wasn't getting any sleep tonight.

George turned over in his bed and Fred waited until he could hear the sound of his twin's deep, even breathing to know that he was asleep. Then he looked back up at the ceiling and thought over George's words. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite convince himself of what George had told him. He knew it made sense, but it would also make sense if Hazel did not want to get back together after the war.

In a weird, horrible way, it was all quite funny. The whole reason Hazel had broken up with him was so that he could get over her, and as a result, he had never been less over her. He knew it wasn't what Hazel wanted to happen, but he couldn't help himself, could he? As cheesy as it all sounded, he just loved her too much.

But George did have a point, even if he couldn't convince himself of everything he had said. Hazel had to come to him when she was ready, whenever that was. Now all he had to do was wait, and he will, until the very end, if that's what it took.


	13. Intruders

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirteen: Intruders**

 

We all assumed that if Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, capturing Mundungus would take a few hours at most. However, Kreacher does not return that morning or even afternoon. By the time night falls, we all feel slightly discouraged and anxious, which isn't helped by a supper consisting largely of mouldy bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful Transfiguration spells (I simply opted not to eat at all).

Kreacher does not return the following day, or the day after that. However, two cloaked men appear in the square outside number twelve, and remain there into the night, gazing into the windows of the house they can't see.

"Death Eaters, for sure," Ron says, as he, Harry, Hermione, and I watch them from the drawing room windows. "Reckon they know we're in here?"

"They can't, can they?" I murmur, not entirely sure why I'm being quiet, since they can't hear me. "Otherwise they would've just sent Snape in after us, wouldn't they?"

"D'you reckon he's been in here and had his tongue tied by Moody's curse?" Ron asks.

"Yes," Hermione says, "otherwise he'd be able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn't he? But they're probably just watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all."

"How do they - ?" Harry begins.

"Wizarding wills are examined by the Minister, remember? They'll know Sirius left you the house."

The presence of the Death Eaters outside number twelve makes the mood inside even more ominous. We have not hear a word from anyone outside of Grimmauld Place since Mr. Weasley's Patronus, and the strain is really starting to show. Restless and irritable, Ron has developed a rather annoying habit of clicking his Deluminator on and off in his pocket, which particularly infuriates Hermione (of course), who is trying to spend the time waiting for Kreacher by studying  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and therefore does not much appreciate the lights flashing on and off.

"Will you stop it?" she cries on the third night of Kreacher's absence, as all the light is yet again sucked from the drawing room.

"Sorry, sorry!" Ron says, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. "I don't know I'm doing it!"

"Well, can't you find something useful to occupy yourself with?"

"What, like reading kids' stories?"

"Ron, Dumbledore left me this book - "

" - and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I'm meant to use it!"

Rolling my eyes and deciding to leave them to it this time, I stand up and leave the room without them even noticing, Harry following behind me. Without a word, we both head down to the kitchen, having developed a habit of doing that, as that's where Kreacher is most likely to reappear. Halfway down the flight of stairs into the hallway, however, he hears a tap on the front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

I freeze, my whole body tensing up. In unison, Harry and I pull out our wands and move into the shadows behind the decapitated elf heads, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. The door opens. I see a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a cloaked figure edges into the hall and closes the door behind them. The intruder takes a step forward, and Moody's voice asks, "Severus Snape?" The dust figure rises from the end of the hall and rushes him, raising a dead hand.

"It was not I who killed you, Albus," a quiet voice says.

The jinx breaks. The dust figure explodes once more, and it's impossible to make out the intruder through the dense grey cloud it leaves behind. Harry and I move, pointing our wands into the middle of it.

"Don't move!"

In my fear, I had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black. At the sound of Harry's yell, the curtains hiding her fly open and she begins to scream, "Mudbloods and filth dishonouring my house - "

Ron and Hermione come crashing down the stairs behind us, wands pointed, like ours, at the unknown man standing with his arms raised in the hall below.

"Hold your fire, it's me, Remus!"

"Oh, thank goodness," Hermione says weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead. With a bang, the curtains swish shut and silence falls again. Ron lowers his wand, too. I falter, about to lower it myself, but remember to keep my guard up. Harry doesn't lower his wand, either.

"Show yourself!" I call out.

Remus moves forward into the lamplight, his hands held high in a gesture of surrender.

"I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder's Map, godfather to you, Hazel Jasmine Knight, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I taught you to produce a Patronus, which takes the form of a stag. And your Patronus, Hazel, takes the form of a coyote."

"Oh, alright," Harry says, lowering his wand. "But we had to check, didn't we?"

"Speaking as your ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron, Hermione, you shouldn't be so quick to lower your defences." We run down the stairs to meet him. Wrapped in a thick black travelling cloak, he looks exhausted, but pleased to see us. I hurry over to hug him, and he hugs me in return, rubbing my back, before holding me at arm's length.

"No sign of Severus, then?"

"No," I say. "What's happening? Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," Remus says, "but we're all being watched. There are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside - "

"We know - "

"I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door or they would have seen me. They can't know you're in here or I'm sure they'd have more people out there. They're staking out anywhere that has any connection to you, Harry. Let's go downstairs, there's a lot to tell you, and I want to know what happened to you after you left the Burrow."

We descend into the kitchen, where Hermione points her wand at the grate. A fire springs up instantly, giving an illusion of cosiness to the stark stone walls and glistening off the long wooden table. Remus pulls out a few Butterbeers from his cloak and we sit down.

"I'd have been here three days ago but I had to shake off the Death Eaters tailing me," Remus says. "So, you came here straight after the wedding?"

"No," Harry says, "only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a café on Tottenham Court Road."

Remus slops his Butterbeer down his front.

"What?"

We explain what happened. After we finish, Remus looks stunned.

"But how did they find you so quickly? It's impossible to track anyone who Apparates, unless you grab hold of them as they disappear."

"And it doesn't seem likely that they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?" Harry says.

"We wondered," Hermione says tentatively, "whether Harry could still have the Trace on him?"

"Impossible," Remus says, causing Ron to look rather smug and Harry relieved. "Apart from anything else, they'd know Harry was here if he still had the Trace on him, wouldn't they? But I can't see how they tracked you down to Tottenham Court Road, that's worrying, really worrying."

He looks disturbed, but Harry presses on.

"Tell us what happened after we left, we haven't heard a thing since Ron's dad told us the family was safe."

"Well, Kingsley saved us," Remus says. "Thanks to his warning, most of the guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived."

"Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?" Hermione asks.

"A mixture, but for all intents and purposes, they're the same thing now," Remus says. "There were about a dozen there, but they didn't know you were there, Harry. Arthur heard a rumour that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it's true, he didn't give you away."

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I look at each other. None of us had ever particularly liked Scrimgeour, but if this was true, his final act had been to protect Harry.

"The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom," Remus continues. "They found the ghoul, but didn't want to get too close - and then they interrogated those who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but of course nobody outside of the Order knew you had been there.

"At the same time, they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths," he adds quickly, answering our question before we can ask it, "but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle's house, but as you know he wasn't there, and they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks' family. Again, trying to find out where you went after you visited them. They're alright - shaken, obviously, but otherwise okay."

"The Death Eaters got through all those protective charms?" Harry asks.

"What you've got to realise, Harry, is that the Death Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their side now." Remus says. "They've got the power to perform brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell we'd cast on them, and once inside, they were completely open about why they'd come."

"And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry's whereabouts out of people?" I demand, an edge to my voice.

"Well," Remus says, hesitates, then pulls out a folded copy of the  _Daily Prophet_. "Here," he says, pushing it across the table to Harry, "you'll know it sooner or later, anyway. That's their pretext for going after you."

Harry smooths out the paper. A huge photograph of his face fills the front page. He reads the headline out loud, " _Wanted for Questioning for the Death of Albus Dumbledore._ "

Ron and Hermione give roars of outrage, but my anger, my shock, my disgust feels beyond words. Harry says nothing, pushing the newspaper away. It's not like anyone needs to read the article; we all know what it will say. Nobody but those on the Astronomy Tower knew what happened the night Dumbledore died, and Harry had been seen running away from that same place moments after his death.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Remus says.

"So, the Death Eaters have taken over the Prophet, too?" Hermione says furiously.

Remus nods.

"But surely people will realise what's going on?"

"The coup has been smooth and virtually silent," Remus says. "The official version of Scrimgeour's murder is that he resigned, he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse."

"Why doesn't Voldemort declare himself Minister for Magic?" Ron asks.

"He doesn't need to, Ron," Remus laughs. "Effectively, he is the Minister, but why should he have to sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his reach beyond the Mininstry.

"Naturally, many people have already deduced what has happened. There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy over the past few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that's the point; they whisper. They don't dare confide in each other, not knowing who they can trust. They're scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself as Minister might have provoked an open rebellion. Remaining masked has caused confusion, uncertainty, and fear."

"And this dramatic change in Ministry policy," Harry says, "involves warning the Wizarding world against me as opposed to Voldemort?"

"That's certainly a part of it," Remus agrees, "and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you - the Boy Who Lived - were sure to be a symbol and rallying point for any resistance against Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in his death, Voldemort has not only set a price on your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many people who would've defended you.

"Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns," Remus says, then points at the  _Daily Prophet_. "Look at page two."

Hermione turns the pages with the same amount of disdain she has when handling  _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

"Muggle-born register!" she reads aloud. "'The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called "Muggle-borns" to better understand how they came to possess magical secrets.

"'Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when wizards reproduce. When no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.

"'The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.'"

The five of us all look at each other, unable to believe what we've just heard.

"People won't let this happen," Ron says.

"It is happening, Ron," Remus says. "Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we speak."

"But how are they supposed to have 'stolen' magic?" Ron says. "It's mental, if you could steal magic, there wouldn't be any Squibs, would there?"

"I know," Remus says. "Nevertheless, unless you can prove you have at least one Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power illegally and therefore must be punished,"

Ron glances at Hermione, then says, "What is Pure-bloods and half-bloods swear that a Muggle-born is part of their family? I'll tell everyone Hermione's my cousin - "

Hermione covers Ron's hand with hers and squeezes it.

"Thank you, Ron, but I couldn't let you - "

"You won't have a choice," Ron says fiercely, gripping her hand. "I'll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it."

Hermione gives a shaky laugh.

"Ron, as we're on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the country, I don't think it matters. If I was going back to school, it'd be different. What's Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?" she asks Remus.

"Attendance is now compulsory for every wizard," Remus explains. "That was announced yesterday. It's a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of course, nearly every wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents have the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they prefer. This way, Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young age. And it's also another way to weed out Muggle-borns, because students must be given Blood Status - meaning that they have been proven to be of Wizard descent - before they're allowed to attend."

I feel sick, angry at this. All I can see is excited eleven year-olds pouring over newly-purchased spell-books, unaware that they'd never really make it to Hogwarts, that perhaps they'd never even see their families again.

"That's... that's..." I begin, but I can't find the words to do justice to the horror of what I'm finding out, but Remus understands and says, quietly, "I know." Remus hesitates.

"I'll understand if you can't confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission."

"He did," Harry replies, "and Hazel, Ron, ad Hermione are in on it and coming with me."

"Can you confide in me what the mission is?"

Harry hesitates, but says, "I can't, Remus, I'm sorry. If Dumbledore didn't tell you I don't think I can."

"I thought you'd say that," Remus says, looking disappointed. "But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you and provide protection. There would be no need to tell me what exactly you were up to."

Harry hesitates. Hermione looks puzzled. I stare at Remus, my eyes narrowed slightly, not liking the way he was talking.

"But what about Tonks?" Hermione asks.

"What about her?" Remus replies.

"Well," Hermione frowns, "you're married! How does she feel about you going away with us?"

"Tonks will be perfectly safe," Remus says. "She'll be at her parents' house."

There's something strange in Remus' tone, almost cold. There's also something odd in the idea of Tonks staying hidden in her parents' house. She is, after all, a member of the Order, and would want to stay in the thick of all the action.

"Remus?" Hermione says tentatively, "is everything alright... you know, between you and - ?"

"Everything is fine, thank you," Remus answers pointedly.

Hermione turns pink, but I keep watching Remus carefully. There's another silence, long and awkward and embarrassed, then Remus says, with the air of someone having to say something very unpleasant, "Tonks is going to have a baby."

"Oh, how wonderful," Hermione squeals, as I smile, forgetting my suspicions for a moment.

"Excellent!" Ron says enthusiastically.

"Congratulations," Harry adds.

Remus gives an artificial smile that looks more like a grimace, and the smile wipes off my face and I narrow my eyes at him again as he say, "So... do you accept my offer? Will four become five? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would've disapproved, he appointed me as your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you I believe that we are facing magic that none of us have ever seen or imagined."

Ron and Hermione both look at Harry, but I don't look away from Remus.

"Remus, what is wrong with you?" I finally say sharply.

"What do you mean?" he replies.

"What I mean is that you're telling us you want to leave your pregnant wife behind to come away with us," I say. "You don't do that if everything is fine."

"She'll be perfectly safe there, they'll look after her," Remus says, speaking with a finality bordering on indifference, that makes my feeling of suspicion even worse. "Hazel, I'm sure your father - and James - " he adds, looking over at Harry - "would have wanted me to stick with you."

"Look, I know you knew both my dad and Harry's dad better than we did, but honestly, I think they'd want to know why you're ditching your own kid for theirs. Exactly what I'm wondering."

Remus' face drains of colour. The temperature in the room might have dropped then degrees. Ron looks around the room as though he's suddenly become determined to memorise it, Hermione's eyes dart back between me and Remus, but Harry has fixed his gaze on Remus, the same way I have.

"You don't understand," he says finally.

"Explain then," I say simply.

Remus swallows.

"I - I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks."

"Do you not love her?" I ask.

"I do," he replies, this time without hesitation.

"Then how did you make a mistake?" I demand.

"I - I made a decision against my better judgement and have regretted it very much since."

"I see," Harry says, jumping in, "so you're just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?" Remus springs to his feet. His chair topples over backwards, and he glares at us so fiercely, that for the first time ever, I see the shadow of the wolf on his human face.

"Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child? I should never have married her, I've made her an outcast!" Remus kicks aside the chair he had overturned. "You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore's protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don't you see what I've done? Even her family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child - the child - "

Remus actually seizes fistfuls of his own hair, looking rather deranged.

"My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it - how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my condition to my own child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it will always be ashamed."

"Remus!" Hermione whispers, tears in her eyes. "Don't say that! How could any child be ashamed of you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hermione," Harry says. "I'd be pretty ashamed of him."

Harry leaps to his feet, too. I look between the two of them, but decide to remain seated.

"Harry," I say quietly, looking at Remus again, who looks as though Harry had hit him, "don't."

"If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad," Harry says, ignoring me, "what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father is in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and Hazel's dad did the same for his family, and you reckon they'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?"

"How - how dare you?" Remus says. "This is not about a desire for - for danger or personal glory - how dare you suggest such a - "

"I think you're feeling like a bit of a daredevil," Harry says. "You fancy stepping into Sirius' shoes - "

"Harry - no!" Hermione begs, but he continues staring into Remus' livid face.

"I'd never have believed this," Harry says. "The man who taught me to fight Dementors - a coward."

Remus draws his wand so fast the rest of us barely have time to react. There's a bang, and Harry flies backwards as though punched, slamming into the kitchen wall and sliding down onto the floor.

I leap to my feet and shout, " _Protego!_ "

Remus is knocked backwards a few feet, before regaining balance. I look over at him fearfully. He takes one look at me, then at Harry lying on the floor, and storms out the kitchen door. I lower my wand and the spell is broken.

"Remus?" I call after him. "Remus!"

I hurry after him, running up the steps two at a time. I reach the top of the stairs just as he's started down the hall, hurry forward and grab him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around and saying, "Remus!"

"What?" he demands, looking at me angrily, hardly recognisable anymore.

"What - what is wrong with you?" I say weakly. "I - I know you're worried about Tonks and about your kid, but this - this isn't you!"

"You don't get it!" he says. "You'll never get it - you - you're so naive, do you truly believe we live in a world so accepting of my kind? We don't, that's the simple truth of it, and it's not my problem if you're too blind to see that!"

He turns to leave again, but I run forward to stop him, standing in front of him and saying, "You know he's right, don't you? Harry, I mean. What you're doing - you're not  _helping_ \- parents - parents shouldn't leave their kids unless - unless they have to. And you don't have to!"

"Yes, I do!" Remus cries. "Don't you see how much better my child will be without such a terrible father in their life! And you - and Harry - you have no right to say such things to me!"

He steps to the side to move around me, but I step in the same direction, holding my hands up to stop him from leaving. "Look, I know you're scared and worried and - and angry at me and at Harry, and I get that! I do, but you need to - you just need to stop for a minute and just - just think about this all rationally! Just think it through rationally, and I'm sure you'll see that leaving your family isn't - "

"When will you understand I'm not meant to have a family? Not a wife, not a child, nothing!" Remus yells. "And you - you are  _nothing_ -  _no one_ \- to tell me what to do as though you know, as though you understand! So don't you dare look at me and talk to me as though you're  _anything_ to me but some naive, blind little girl!"

His words are followed by a ringing silence. I stare at him in shock, disbelief spreading slowly over me, before the hurt starts to settle in. He stares at me, something like regret in his eyes, before tearing his gaze away and storming past me down the hall. This time, I don't stop him. I hear the door opening, and flinch slightly as it slams shut.

I look down at the ground, closing my eyes and trying to steady my shaky breath. I blink back tears, before turning around and walking towards the door. Slowly, I turn each of the locks on the door, making it's securely locked, before turning around and leaning against the door, pressing my lips together to keep them from quivering.

In the silence that's now settled over the house, I can hear the hushed voices of Harry, Ron, and Hermione down below. I can't quite make out what they're saying, but I hear snatches. I hear Remus' name. My name. The fact that I can hear them makes me notice that even in spite of our shouting, the portrait of Mrs. Black never joined in with us. Maybe she realised that enough chaos was going on without her. Though, knowing the kind of person she was, I know that's definitely not true.

When I'm certain I won't start crying and I'm in a good enough state to go back downstairs, I start walking slowly towards the staircase, and then down the steps. The moment I start walking down the stairs, the talking stops. I stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and keep walking down. When I reach the kitchen again, everyone is looking very determinedly away from me. I already knew that they had heard the whole conversation between Remus and I, but did they really have to make it so obvious?

I shake my head slightly, glance over at Harry, who looks back at me, and say, "You were bang out of order, you know that?"

"I was?" he says defensively. "You're the one that even started this whole thing!"

"I saw something was wrong and I was worried! You provoked him!" I burst out, and suddenly feel embarrassed at the realisation that I'm about to cry all over again.

"Hazel - " Harry begins, but I don't even let him finish.

"Just - forget it," I say quietly, walk over to the fire, my back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and stare into the flames, hardly taking in what I'm seeing. All I can hear is Remus' words over and over again. Nothing. I'm nothing to him, nothing but a blind, naive little girl. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a father and that's all I am to him.

I've nearly decided to go to bed early and pretend to be sleeping just to be away from everyone, when a deafening crack echoes around the kitchen and I whip around.

For the first time in three days, I'd forgotten all about Kreacher. For a split second, I have a moment of wishful thinking and think I'll find Remus standing there, ready to fix everything that had just happened, which is why the mass of struggling limbs beside Harry's chair is confusing for a moment. I walk forward as Kreacher disentangles himself and, bowing low to Harry, says, "Kreacher has returned with the thief, Mundungus Fletcher, Master."

Mundungus scrambles to his feet and pulls out his wand, but I'm too quick for him. I'd forgotten my wand is still in my hand, but it's awfully convenient.

"Expelliarmus!"

Mundungus' wand soars in the air, and I catch it easily. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dives for the stairs. Ron rugby-tackles him and Mundungus hits the stone cold floor with a muffled crunch.

"What?" he bellowed, writing in an attempt to free himself from Ron's grip. "Wha've I done? Setting a bleedin' house-elf on me, what are you playin' at, lemme go, lemme go or - "

"I don't think you're in any position to make threats, Mundungus," I scoff, crossing the room quickly to reach where Mundungus and Ron are.

When he looks up at me, he stops struggling and looks terrified. Clearly, the anger is showing through on my face. I didn't even realise how disgusted, how furious I was with Mundungus for Disapparating until looking at him now. I suppose he didn't realise it, either. Ron moves away, and I grab Mundungus by the collar of his shirt, drag him over to a chair, and throw him into it, standing behind him and pointing my wand at his neck. He smells like stale sweat and tobacco smoke. His hair is matted and his robes stained.

"Kreacher apologises for the delay in bringing the thief, Master," Kreacher croaks. "Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, he has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end."

"You've done really well, Kreacher," Harry says, and the elf bows low. He turns to Mundungus and adds, "Right, we've got a few questions for you." Mundungus starts shouting at once, "I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offence, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, an' that was bleeding You-Know-Who flying at me, anyone woulda got outta there. I said all along I didn't wanna do it - "

"For your information, none of the rest of us Disapparated," Hermione says coldly.

"Well, you're a bunch of bleeding heroes, then, aren't you, but I never pretended I was up for killin' myself - "

"Yeah, just up for killing Moody, I suppose, yeah?" I hiss.

"Look, that was real sad and all, but he signed up for that, I didn't - "

"Oh, you think he signed up to be betrayed by you?" I say furiously. "Is that what you fucking - "

"Hazel - " Hermione reprimands.

"You didn't see him die," I snap, looking between the three of them. "You didn't see the way he fell. None of you did. And you know what," I say, looking back down at Mundungus, "neither did you. But then again, maybe if you didn't Disapparate, we wouldn't have to see him die in the first place."

Without realising it, the tip of my wand gets hot, burning his neck.

"Oi! Cut that out!" he yelps, moving away.

I look down at the Cross of Elements on my finger and realise it's set on fire. I focus for a moment, bringing it back to its state of obsidian, before pointing my wand back at Mundungus' neck and pretending I had done it on purpose.

"Whoops," I say innocently. "I guess my hand slipped."

"Hazel," Harry says, and I look up at him. "We need answers."

"Fine, we didn't bring you here because of Moody," I inform him. "We all knew you were an unreliable piece of shit."

"Well, then, why the hell am I being hunted down by house-elves? Or is this about the goblets again? I ain't got none of 'em left, or you could have 'em - "

"It's not the goblets either, but you're getting warmer," Harry says. "Shut up and listen. When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable - "

"Sirius never cared about any of that junk - "

There's the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony. Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

"Call him off, call him off, he should be locked up!" Mundungus screams, cowering as Kreacher raises the heavy-bottomed pan again.

"Kreacher, no!" Harry yells.

Kreacher's small arms tremble with the weight of the heavy pan, still held aloft.

"Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, just for luck?"

Ron laughs, and I crack a smile.

"We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading, you can do the honours," Harry says.

"Thank you very much, Master," Kreacher says with a bow, retreats a short distance, and stares at Mundungus with loathing.

"When you stripped this house of all valuables you could find," Harry says again, "you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there. What did you do with it?"

"Why?" Mundungus asks. "Is it valuable?"

"You've still got it!" Hermione cries.

"No, he doesn't," Ron says shrewdly. "He's wondering whether he should've asked more money for it."

"More?" Mundungus repeats. "That would've been fuckin' difficult... bleeding gave it away, didn't I? No choice?"

"What do you mean?" I ask slowly.

"I was sellin' in Diagon Alley and she comes up and asks me if I've got a license for trading magical artefacts. Bleedin' snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an' told me she'd take it and let me off that time, and to think myself lucky."

"Who was this woman?" Harry asks.

"I dunno, some Ministry hag," he answers thoughtfully, brow wrinkled. "Little woman. Bow on top of 'er head." Mundungus frowns and then adds, "Looked like a toad."

I'm so shocked that sparks shoot from my wand, igniting Mundungus' eyebrows.

"Aquamenti!" Hermione screams, a get of water streaming from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

I look up and see my own shock reflected on Harry, Ron, and Hermione's faces, and for a second, it almost feels like we're in fifth year again.


	14. Magic is Might

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Fourteen: Magic is Might**

 

As August wears on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place shrivels in the sun until it's brittle and brown. The inhabitants of number twelve are unseen by everyone in the surrounding houses, as is the house itself. The Muggles who live in Grimmauld Place have long ago accepted the mistake in numbering that made number eleven sit beside number thirteen.

But a trickle of visitors seem to find it very interesting. Barely a day can pass by without one or two people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose but to lean against the railings facing number twelve and thirteen and stare at the join between the two houses. The lurkers are never the same for two days running, although they all share a distaste for Muggle clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed by were more than used to eccentric dressers and therefore paid them no mind, but some would look back at them as they passed and wonder who would wear a cloak in this heat.

The watchers don't seem to be getting anything satisfying out of their vigil. Occasionally, one would start forward excitedly, as if they had finally seen something exciting, only to fall back soon after, disappointed.

On the first day of September, there are more watchers on the square than ever before ( _They can't possible think we're going back to Hogwarts,_ I think). Half a dozen people in long cloaks stand silent and watchful, gazing as always at the join between number eleven and thirteen, but the thing they were watching for remains as elusive as ever. More times than ever on this day, they start, thinking they've seen something, only to realise in disappointment that they really haven't.

I know all of this, because in my free time, I spend ages watching them look for us. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all tell that I shouldn't, that it won't do anything but make me worry more, but I can't help it. Knowing they're out there, if I don't have an eye on them myself, I feel exposed, like they're always behind me, about to get to me. At least if I can see them for myself, I know we're safe. I have to admit, I don't feel that way when one of them looks up, as though they're looking straight at me, even though I know they can't really see me.

"Hazel!" I hear Hermione's voice call.

"In here," I call back, though I hear her footsteps moving towards the drawing room and know she already knows. She walks in, sees me at the window, and frowns slightly. I say nothing, glancing at her, before turning back to the window. "What's up?"

"Ron and I are going to go over all the information we have on the Ministry again," she says. "We want you to help us."

"We've been over it loads of times," I point out. "Why do you need me?"

"Well... you're very clever, Hazel," she says.

I turn to look at her with raiser eyebrows, saying, "And you're not?"

"Two hears are better than one?" she suggests. "Three, really, since we've got Ron." When I continue to stare at her with raised eyebrows, she finally sighs in defeat and says, "We're worried about you, Hazel. It's not good to just stare out that window at them all the time. They can't get in here. If they could, they would've done it by now."

"I know that," I say, turning back to the window, feeling as though I've had this conversation one too many times. "But it doesn't do much to help with the feeling that they're about to get to us. If I can see them, see what they're doing, I can have a better hold of it all."

"Hazel, I know you're upset about Remus - "

"What does that have to do with it?" I demand hotly, looking at her over my shoulder.

"What he said would've upset anyone," she said gently, taking a few steps closer. "And you had no control over anything that happened then. You keep an eye on them so you feel like you have some kind of control."

"So?" I say, looking away and avoiding her eye now. "Is that so wrong?"

"No, Hazel, but it's not good for you," Hermione insists. "I know Remus didn't really mean what he said, and I know he wouldn't want - "

"I don't think Remus particularly cares what I do, as long as it's far away from him," I snap.

Hermione is silent for a moment, before saying, "Come on, Hazel, please, if only to get your mind off all of this for a while."

I look over at her from the corner of my eye, before my posture slumps and I sigh.

"Alright, then, let's go," I say, straightening up, closing the curtains, and following Hermione out of the drawing room, where she leads me down to the kitchen. The kitchen is almost unrecognisable now. Every surface shines; copper pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleams; the goblets and plates already laid out for dinner glinted merrily fro the light of the nearby fire, on which a cauldron is now simmering. However, nothing is more differing in the kitchen than the house-elf scurrying around inside it, who now hurried over to me.

"Remember, Miss Hazel, hands washed before dinner," he croaks, bowing to me.

"I'll keep it in mind, Kreacher," I nod, before Hermione and I walk over to join Ron at the table, littered with all of our scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps of the Ministry. Ron looks surprised to see me, as though he didn't expect Hermione to convince me to leave the drawing room. After a moment of consideration, I decide not to comment on it. At least, not for now.

All of our notes and maps on the Ministry are for one reason: to help us in our mission to get the Horcrux from Umbridge. The plan is relatively simple, if somewhat insane (not that that's anything new) - disguise ourselves as members of the Ministry, infiltrate the Ministry, find Umbridge, steal the locket, and get the hell out of there. However, it's easier said than done, which is why we've made note after note on the Ministry and Umbridge in order to figure out what to do.

I've only just started going over the notes when I hear the door open and close, tensing up until I hear Harry's voice say, halfway down to the kitchen, "I've got news, and you won't like it."

As Harry enters the kitchen, Kreacher hurries over to him and says, taking Harry's Invisibility Cloak and hanging it up on a hook on the wall, along with some freshly-washed, old-fashioned robes, "Shoes off, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner."

"What is it?" Ron asks apprehensively, as Harry walks over to the table, before tossing a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ onto the table over all of our notes.

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stared up at us, the headline reading: 'SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER'

"No!" Ron, Hermione, and I all say in unison, horrified.

 _Not Snape,_ I think,  _anyone but Snape!_

But, even as the thought crosses my mind, I realise something - who else but Snape? He had been the one who killed Dumbledore, of course Voldemort would reward him by giving him full power of the school. And besides, after killing Dumbledore, he must have also killed any suspicion in Voldemort's mind that he was secretly working for Dumbledore and wasn't fully committed to Voldemort. There probably aren't many people that Voldemort trusts more than Snape right now.

Hermione's the quickest, snatching up the copy of the Prophet and reading the article out loud.

"'Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes in the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies professor, Alecto Carrow will take over the post, while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

"'I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values - ' Like committing murder and cutting off people's ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore's study - Merlin's pants!" she shrieks, making Harry, Ron, and I all jump. She leapt from the table and hurtled from the room, yelling as she went, "I'll be right back!"

"Merlin's pants?" Ron repeats, looking amused. "She must really be upset." He pulls the newspaper towards him and starts scanning the article. "The other professors won't stand for this. McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they all know how Dumbledore died. They won't accept Snape as headmaster. And who are the Carrows?"

"Do they really have any choice, though, Ron?" I say, sighing and leaning back in my chair. "It's Voldemort and the Ministry backing Snape here, which means, for the teachers, it's between staying and teaching or some quality time in Azkaban - at best. If anything, I bet they'll stay to try and protect the students."

"As for the Carrows, they're Death Eaters. There are pictures of them inside. They were at the top of the tower with Snape the night he killed Dumbledore, so it's all friends together," Harry replies bitterly, drawing up a chair and sitting down beside me.

Kreacher comes bustling to the table with a large green tureen in hand, ladling soup into pristine bowls and whistling between his teeth as he does so.

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry says, flipping over the newspaper so as not to have to keep looking at Snape's face, and I shoot him a grateful look. "Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now."

"There are still a load of Death Eaters watching the house," he says, as the three of us start eating ( _Tell me something I don't know,_ I think), "more than usual. It's like they're hoping we'll march out in our school robes and head off for the Hogwarts Express."

Ron glances at his watch.

"I've been thinking about it all day," he admits. "It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn't it?"

I have to agree. There was an empty sort of feeling, especially at eleven o'clock, knowing the Hogwarts Express was leaving and I wasn't on it the way I was supposed to be. In my mind's eye, I can see the scarlet steam engine as I had seen it when Harry, Ron, and I had followed it in the air, shimmering between fields and hills. I'm certain that Ginny, Neville, and Luna are sitting together in a compartment, probably debating how best to undermine Snape's regime.

"They nearly saw me coming in just now," Harry says. "I landed badly on the top step and the Cloak nearly slipped."

"I do that everytime. Oh, here she is," Ron says, craning his neck to see Hermione re-enter the kitchen. "And what in the name of Merlin's most baggy Y Fronts was that about?"

"I remembered this," Hermione pants.

She's carrying a large, framed picture, which she lowers to the floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it, she proceeds to shove the painting inside, and despite the fact that it appear much too large to fit inside the tiny bag, soon it had vanished, along with the rest of the contents of the bag.

"Phineas Nigellus," Hermione explains, as she throws the bag to the side with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

"Sorry?" Ron says, but I understand. The painted portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black is able to travel back and forth between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one that hands in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts: the circular room in which Snape is no doubt sitting right now, in triumphant possession of Dumbledore's delicate silver instruments, the Pensieve, the Sorting Hat, and, unless it had been moved elsewhere, the Sword of Gryffindor.

"Snape could send Phineas to look inside the house for us," Hermione explains as she sits back in her seat. "But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my bag!"

"Good thinking!" Ron says, looking impressed.

"Thank you," Hermione smiles, pulling her soup towards her. "So, Harry, what else happened today?"

"Nothing," Harry says. "Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. I saw your dad, though, Ron. He looks fine."

Ron nods in appreciation of this news. We've all agreed that it's far too dangerous to try and communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walks in and out of the Ministry, as he's always surrounded by other Ministry workers. Regardless, it's always reassuring to catch glimpses of him, even if he always does look anxious and stressed.

"Dad always told me most people used Floo Network to get to work," Ron says. "That's why we never see her, she'd never walk, she'd think she's too important for that."

"And what about that funny old witch and the little wizard in the navy robes?" Hermione asks.

"Oh, yeah, the bloke in Magical Maintenance," Ron says.

"How do you know he's in Magical Maintenance?" Hermione demands, her spoon suspended in midair.

"Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy robes," he shrugs.

"But you never told us that!" Hermione drops her spoon and pulls the sheaf of notes towards her, flipping through the feverishly. "There's nothing here about navy blue robes, nothing!"

"Well, does it really matter?" Ron asks.

"Ron, everything matters!" Hermione insists. "If we're going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they're bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We've been over and over this, I mean, what's the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren't even going to tell us - "

"Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing..."

"You do realise, don't you, that there's probably no place more dangerous for us to be right now than the Ministry of - "

"I think we should do it tomorrow," Harry says, rather boldly.

Hermione stops dead, her jaw hanging. Ron chokes a little on his soup. I look over at him with wide eyes, not sure I've heard him right.

"Tomorrow?" Hermione repeats. "You aren't serious?"

"I am," Harry says. "I don't think we'r going to be much better prepared even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther off that locket could be. There's already a good chance Umbridge has chucked the locket away, since it doesn't open."

"Unless," Ron says, "she found a way of opening it and now she's possessed."

"Well, no need to worry, then," I pipe up. "She's already too evil for it to make any difference."

Hermione bites her lip, apparently deep in thought.

"We know everything important," Harry presses on. "We know they've stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry; we know only the most senior members of the Ministry are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Hazel heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge's office is, because you heard what the bearded bloke was saying to his mate - "

"'I'll be on level one, Dolores wants to see me,'" Hermione recites immediately.

"Exactly," Harry nods. "And we know you get in using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that one witch borrowing one from her friend - "

"But we haven't got one!" Hermione pointed out.

"If the plan works, we will have," Harry replies calmly.

"I don't know, Harry, I don't know... there's so much that could go wrong, so much of it relies on chance..."

"That'll be true even if we spend the next three months preparing," Harry points out. "Now's the time to act."

We've spent the last four weeks taking turns to wear the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry which Ron, thanks to his father, has known since childhood. We've tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which ones they could rely on to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally, there had been the chance to snatch the  _Daily Prophet_ out of a briefcase. Slowly, we've been able to build up all the notes and maps now stacked in front of Hermione.

I can't help but feel scared, and judging from the looks on their faces, I know Harry, Ron, and Hermione all are, too. But even though I am frightened, I have to admit that I don't know how much more we can learn through eavesdropping and observation that would help us.

"I suppose you do have a point..." I say slowly.

"Alright," Ron says, "say we go tomorrow... I think it should just be me, Harry, and Hazel - "

"Oh, don't start that again!" Hermione sighs. "I thought we'd settled this."

"It's one thing hanging around entrances under the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione," Ron jabs a finger at a  _Daily Prophet_ from ten days ago. "You're on the list of Muggle-borns who didn't present themselves for interrogation!"

"And you're supposed to be bedridden with spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone shouldn't go, it's Harry. He's got a ten thousand galleon price on his head!"

"Fine, I'll stay here," Harry says sarcastically. "Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, will you?"

As Ron, Hermione, and I all laugh, I notice Harry's hand jump to his forehead, wincing. My eyes narrow slightly, knowing it's his scar again, but he tries to pass it off as brushing his hair out of his eyes.

Deciding not to comment on it just yet, I turn away, saying, "Well, if it's dangerous for  _you_ to go because you didn't show up for interrogation," I look to Hermione, "and it's dangerous for  _you_ to go because you're supposedly seriously ill," I turn to Ron, "and it's dangerous for  _you_ to go because you've got a price on your head," I look over at Harry again, "basically what all of this means is that I should do all of this by myself while the lot of you stay here, safe and sound."

"Oh, right, that makes perfect sense," Ron says, "or - it would, if it wasn't for the fact that there's an article talked all about how you're a dangerous and unhinged madwoman who reportedly helped him - " he nods at Harry - "murder Dumbledore, and that if anyone catches sight of you, they ought to subdue you and then bring you to the Ministry for arrest."

"A minor setback," I shrug nonchalantly.

Laughing, Ron says, "Well, if all four of us go, we'll have to Disapparate separately. We can't all fit under the Cloak anymore." Harry stands up abruptly. Immediately, Kreacher is hurrying forward.

"Master has not finished his soup, would master prefer the savoury stew, or else the treacle tart to which master is so partial?"

"Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute - er - bathroom - "

I watch carefully as Harry hurries out of the room, thinking about how Harry really never had been all that great of a liar.

"Right," I say, "so I'm definitely not the only person who thinks it's a need to go to the bathroom that's got him like that, yeah?"

"It's his scar, it must be," Hermione says, watching the door through which Harry had vanished suspiciously. "I don't know why he doesn't just tell us. Or try harder to block it out."

"Well, he likes to think that we think that he's got it all under control, remember?" I point out. "As for blocking it out - well, he's got the most powerful Dark wizard in the world in his head, it's probably not a walk in the park to block that out."

"We'll just have to let him alone, if only for a bit," Ron says. "At least for now. If we press him right now, chances are he won't budge. We won't get anywhere."

"You're right," I say bracingly. "Let's focus on this, if we're really going to do this tomorrow." As it turns out, focusing turns out to be harder than I imagined, particularly when we hear Harry shouting from upstairs. Almost in unison, the three of us jump to our feet. There's a pause, where the three of us just look at each other, as though for confirmation that really just happened, before we all turn and run up the stairs as fast as we can. The closer we get to the bathroom, the louder the yelling gets, until we're at the door and it's only a little muffled by the door.

Hermione promptly starts banging at the door, yelling out Harry's name, clearly trying to down out his yelling.

"Harry! HARRY!"

The shouting stops abruptly. The three of us all look at each other, before I approach the door and knock quieter, hardly realising I was taking my wand out. "Harry? Open up!"

There's a pause, before the door opens and Hermione stumbles inside, before regaining her balance and looking around suspiciously. Ron and I follow after her, pointing our wands at different corners of the room. Harry stands in the middle of the room, looking pale and unnerved.

"What were you doing?" Hermione says sternly.

"What d'you think I was doing?" Harry says with feeble bravado.

"You were yelling your head off!" Ron says.

"Oh, yeah... I must've dozed off, or - "

He's really never been all that great of a liar.

"Harry, please don't insult our intelligence," Hermione says, taking deep breaths. "We know your scar hurt downstairs and you're as white as a sheet."

Harry sits on the edge of the bath.

"Fine. I've just seen Voldemort murder a woman. By now he's probably killed her whole family. And he didn't need to. It's Cedric all over again, she was just  _there_..."

"Harry, you aren't supposed to let this happen anymore!" Hermione cries, her voice echoing through the bathroom. "Dumbledore wanted you to learn Occlumency! He thought the connection was dangerous - Voldemort can use it against you! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, what good does it do?"

"Because it means I know what he's doing," he replies.

"So, you're not even going to try and shut him out?"

"You never really tried!" she says hotly. "I don't get it, Harry, do you like this special connection or relationship or what-whatever - "

She falters under the look Harry gives her as he stands up.

"Like it?" he says quietly. "Would you like it?"

"I - no - I'm sorry, Harry. I just didn't mean - "

"I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him at his most dangerous. But I'm going to use it."

"But Dumbledore - "

"Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else's. I want to know why he's after Gregorovitch."

"Who?"

"He's a foreign wandmaker," Harry replies. "He made Krum's wand and Krum reckons he's brilliant."

"But according to you," Ron says, "Voldemort's got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he's already got one wandmaker, what does he need another one for?"

"Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better... or else he thinks Gregorovitch'll be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander couldn't."

I frown slightly at this, not sure if I believe this.

"Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did," Hermione says, "but you did it! Why are you so determined to not take responsibility for your own power?"

"Because I know it wasn't me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!"

They glare at each other, and I can tell just by looking at her that Hermione is thinking of counterargument after counterargument, both against Harry's theory about his wand and the fact that he was allowing Voldemort to get into his mind. Ron and I exchange nervous looks. This is the last thing we need right now, especially if we're about to break into the Ministry of Magic.

Thankfully, Ron intervenes, saying to Hermione, "Drop it, it's his decision. And if we're going to the Ministry tomorrow, don't you reckon we should go over the plan?"

Reluctantly, as the rest of us can tell, Hermione lets the matter rest, but I get the impression she's storing all her arguments in her mind to be used at the first opportunity. In the meanwhile, we return to the kitchen, where Kreacher serves us all stew and treacle tart.

We do not go to bed until late that night, until each of us can recite the plan, word for word, to each other. Hermione and I sleep in the room we used to share with Ginny, the atmosphere tense and nervous. I barely sleep that night, and when I do manage to doze off, it's a light sleep, where I can wake up again from the sound of a creaking floorboard caused by Kreacher or an owl howling outside (which only makes me think of how much I miss Midnight. I know it was smarter to leave him at the Burrow, but I can't help it). So when dawn rolls around almost indecently soon, when Hermione gets out of bed to wake me up, all she needs to do is walk towards my bed for me to shoot awake.

She looks surprised for a moment, seems to realise that it's my nerves that have made me this way, and looks at me in understanding. She settles for simply saying, "That's a refreshing change."

"Hilarious," I say, sitting upright and swinging my legs over the edge of my bed.

"Nervous?" she asks, grabbing clothes to wear.

"What gave you that idea?" I say sarcastically, standing up and rubbing my eyes. "I've never felt more confident, actually. Not like we're breaking into our corrupt government, where if we get caught we could get sent to a prison full of soul-sucking creatures or killed or God knows what else."

"Hilarious."

Once we're dressed and ready, we head down to the kitchen, where we've served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher. While I go over all of our notes and maps one more time, Hermione starts going through her beaded bag, just as Harry and Ron walk into the room.

"Robes," she says under her breath, as the both of us nod at them, "Polyjuice Potion... Invisibility Cloak... Decoy Detonators... you should each take a couple just in case... Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears..."

We gulp down our breakfast, then set off upstairs, with Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie for when we return.

"Bless him," Ron says fondly, "and when you think I used to fantasise about chopping off his head and sticking it on the wall."

We make our way onto the front step with immense caution. I can see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.

Hermione Disapparates with Ron, then with Harry, then comes back so that we can Disapparate together.

After the standard brief spell of darkness and suffocation, I find myself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of our plan will take place. It's deserted, except for the four of us and a couple of bins; the first Ministry workers do not appear until at least eight o'clock.

"Right, then," Hermione says, "she ought to be here in about five minutes. When you've Stunned her, Hazel - "

"Hermione, we know," Ron says sternly. "And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?"

Hermione squeals, "I nearly forgot! Stand back." She points her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door behind us, which bursts open with a crash. The dark corridor leads, as we know from our careful scouting trips, into an empty theatre. Hermione pulls the door back towards her, to make it look as though it was still closed.

"And now," Hermione says, turning to face the three of us again, "we go under the Cloak again - "

" - and we wait," Ron finishes, throwing the Cloak under Hermione's head like a birdcage and rolling his eyes.

Little more than a minute later, a woman Apparated a few feet from us, blinking in the sudden sunlight. She's taller than me but still much shorter than Ron and curvy, with her auburn hair in ringlets. She's very young, definitely in her early twenties, and always one of the first to arrive, probably wanting nothing more to prove herself. And she barely has time to appreciate the warmth, because my silent Stunning Spell hits her right in the chest and she topples over.

"Nice one," Harry whispers, as the four of us carry the witch down the passageway that led backstage.

Hermione plucks a few curly hairs from the woman's head and adds them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion that she had taken from her beaded bag. I bend down and start rummaging through her handbag, feeling a stab of guilt, before shaking it off.

"Her name is Natasha Argent," I read out loud, taking out a small card that identifies our victim as a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I keep looking through her bag, before taking some of the tokens, which are golden coins, all embossed with the letters M.O.M.

"Come on, Hazel, drink this," Hermione says, handing me the flask.

I look into the potion and see that it's turned into a dark purple. As far as Polyjuice Potion goes, this isn't nearly the worst, so I down the flask and find that holding it down is easier than it was when I turned into Pansy Parkinson in second year. I look down at my hands as I see my skin becoming tanner, my hair becoming shorter and curlier, feel myself getting taller. I take off my own robes, take hers off with difficulty, and throw her robes over my clothes, grateful that she's around my size. I kick off my boots with difficulty and, already dreading having to walk around, slip on her high heels. I had brought my Cross of Elements with me (which might have been foolish, but something about it makes me feel safe), and take it out of my sock and instead stuff it in the pocket of Natasha's robe.

When I turn to face Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the latter says, "Come on, we're running late, the other little witch should be here any minute."

I hurry back out the door, peering through the crack and waiting until, sure enough, a short Ministry witch with flyaway grey hair Apparates in the middle of the alleyway. I wait until she's taken a few steps, before slipping out the door, and hurrying forward to catch up with her, saying, "Excuse me, ma'am!"

She turns around and looks at me, surprised. "Yes, Miss Argent, what do you want?"

"I - erm - had a few work-related questions that I was hoping you could answer for me really quickly," I say. "You know, I'm new to this and everything and I don't want to make any mistakes or anything."

"You're not that new," the woman points out, not unkindly. "It has been a few months."

"I know," I say, taking a few steps forward, "but I just have a couple of question, so if we could talk really quickly, say - in there?" I cock my head towards the theatre door.

"Why in there?" she asks suspiciously. "If it's so quick, we can talk out here."

"But I'm worried if any other workers Apparate and overhears, I'd be so embarrassed," I say, feigning nervousness. "Please, ma'am?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to help you too much, Natasha, as we work in different departments."

"But you have so much more experience working for the Ministry in general, and that's what I want to ask about," I say, trying to keep the edge of impatience out of my voice. Things need to move along much faster. "Please, ma'am, I won't take too much time out of your day."

The woman hesitates for a moment, before sighing and saying, "Oh, very well, then."

"Thank you, ma'am!" I say gratefully, feeling relieved.

No sooner has the woman walked through the door then two Stunning Spells hit her straight in the chest, sending her falling to the floor. Harry and I pick up her body and take her over to where the real Natasha Argent lies, setting her down beside her. Hermione plucks out a few grey hairs, while Ron goes through her purse and pulls out a small card.

"Mafalda Hopkirk," Ron reads out. "An assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. You'd better take this, Hermione, and here are the tokens, as well."

He passes her several of the golden coins from the woman's purse to Hermione. Hermione drinks from the potion, now a pleasant heliotrope colour, and within seconds, there stands a double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removes Mafalda's spectacles and puts them on, Harry checks his watch.

"Come on, let's hurry, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any minute now."

We close the door on the real Mafalda and Natasha. Harry and Ron throw the Cloak over themselves, I hide behind a bin for backup, in case something goes wrong, but Hermione stands in view, waiting. Seconds later, there's a pop, and a ferrety-looking wizard appears before us.

"Oh, hello, Mafalda!"

"Hello!" Hermione says in a quavery voice. "How are you?"

"Not so good, actually," replies the wizard, who does indeed look rather downcast.

As Hermione and the man head down to the main road, I creep along slowly, ducking behind bins and into shadows occasionally, my wand at the ready.

"I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather," Hermione says, talking firmly over the wizard. "Here, have a sweet."

"Eh? Oh, no thanks - "

"I insist!" Hermione says aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face. Looking alarmed, the wizard takes one.

The effect, as always, is instantaneous. The moment the pastille touches his tongue, the wizard starts vomiting so hard that he doesn't even notice when Hermione yanks a few hairs from his head.

"Oh, dear!" Hermione says. "Perhaps you should take the day off."

"No - no!" the man chokes and retches, attempting to continue on even though he can't walk straight. "I must - today - must go - "

"But that's just silly!" Hermione says, alarmed. "You can't go to work in this state - I think you ought to go to St. Mungo's and get them to sort you out!" The man had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still attempting to crawl his way onto the main street.

"You simply can't go to work like this!" Hermione cries.

Finally, the wizard admits defeat. Using a reposed Hermione to crawl his way back into a standing position, leaving nothing but the bag Ron had managed to snatch out of his hand before he disappeared and some flying chunks of vomit.

"Ugh," Hermione says, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid it getting dirty. "It wouldn't've made much mess to just Stun him, too."

"Yeah, but a whole pile of bodies would've been a cause for suspicion, don't you think? I still say we were pushing it with two," Ron says, emerging from the Cloak holding the bag. "Keen on his job, though, isn't he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then."

Within two minutes, Ron stands before us, as small and ferrety as the sick wizard had been, wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

"Weird he wasn't wearing it today, wasn't it, considering how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I'm Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back."

"Now, wait here," Hermione says to Harry, still under the Invisibility Cloak, "and Ron and I will be back with some hairs for you. And, Hazel - "

"I'm staying in case something goes wrong here," I say, having emerged from the shadows, nodding. "I know the plan, Hermione."

Harry and I wait ten minutes, but it feels much longer than that, pacing up and down the sick-splattered alleyway, looking out for any approaching people, right by the door concealing the stunned Mafalda and Natasha. Finally, Ron and Hermione reappear.

"We don't know who he is," Hermione says, passing Harry several curly black hairs, "but he's gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he's pretty tall, you'll need bigger robes..."

She pulls out a set of the old robes that Kreacher had washed for us, and Harry retires to take the potion and change. He emerges once more well over six feet tall, bearded, and powerfully built.

"Blimey, Harry, that's scary," Ron says, looking up at Harry who, for once, towered over him.

"Take one of Mafalda's tokens," Hermione says, "and let's go, it's nearly nine." We step out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there are spiked black railings flanking two flights of stairs, one labelled 'GENTLEMEN', the other one labelled 'LADIES'.

"See you in a moment, then," Hermione says nervously, and we head down the steps to LADIES.

"Hey, Natasha!" a young woman with long hair and a shade of lipstick brighter than Natasha's calls to me, walking over to the two of us. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Hopkirk! Isn't this so annoying? Why do we have to get to work like this every morning. Seriously, do they think Harry Potter and his people are going to be stupid enough to try and break in?"

Hermione blanches, but I try and play it cool, forcing a laugh and saying, "Yeah, mental, right?"

Shaking her head, the woman enters an empty stall and disappears from sight. Hermione and I exchange looks.

"You know, it's only just now really hit me how mental this actually is," I mutter to her.

"Now?" she says in disbelief. "You've only just realised this  _now_?"

Hermione and I enter cubicles next to each other. Staring down at the toilet, I find myself at a loss at what I'm actually supposed to do from here. To my left and right I hear the sound of flushing. I look around, blinking, as though expecting instructions written on the walls. Finally, I crouch down and peer through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle. To my left, I see someone wearing sensible footwear that I wish I was wearing instead of these damn heels climb into the stall next door. I look right and find Hermione staring at me.

"Do we seriously have to flush ourselves in?" I whisper.

"I don't see what else it could be," she whispers back.

"God, this is bloody disgusting," I say. "Could they really not have thought of some other method of getting there? Isn't the Ministry supposed to be full of brilliant thinkers? How was this the best option?"

Someone knocks on the door of my stall impatiently, saying, "Come on, get moving already!"

I scramble to my feet. I look down at the toilet, and after a moment of hesitation, take a deep breath and step into the toilet, thinking that if this isn't what I'm supposed to be doing, I'm going to be feeling really stupid.

The moment I step foot in the toilet, however, I know I've done the right thing. Though I appear to be standing in water, my body remains quite dry. I reach up, pull the chain, and the next moment I've zoomed down a short chute, emerging out of the fireplace into the Ministry of Magic, and had it not been for the high heels, I would've landed on my feet.

Scrambling to my feet and taking a few steps forward, I look around, Hermione now by my side. The Atrium is darker than I remember it. Previously, a golden fountain had filled the centre of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished floor and walls. Now, a gigantic statue of black stone dominates the scene. It's a frightening thing, really, a mass sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below. Engraved on the base of the statue are the words, 'MAGIC IS MIGHT.' Hermione tugs at my arm and points to a ferrety wizard standing by the statue, and the two of us hasten to meet him.

"Hey," I whisper, as we stand on either side of him. "Are we waiting for Harry still?"

"Nah, he's right here, can't you see?" Ron says, gesturing to the empty space in front of him.

"Alright, considering the fact that Harry's actually got an Invisibility Cloak, that joke actually doesn't work that well - " I hiss, but Hermione cuts me off.

"Oh, come on, don't do this while we're here," she says worriedly. Shaking my head, I look more closely at the statue and frown when I realise that what I thought was simply a decorative throne is actually mounds of carved humans, hundreds and hundreds of them. Men, women, and children, all naked, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely-robed wizards. I look down at the engraved words and realisation washes over me.

"Magic is might," I mutter, feeling overwhelming disgust. "Muggles. They're supposed to be Muggles."

"They really couldn't make it more obvious, could they?" Hermione says, looking like she might be sick herself.

"There's Harry," Ron mutters, nodding in the direction of the fireplaces.

"Psst!" Hermione hisses, when we spot him, tall and scary-looking, looking around the atrium. He sees us and hurries over.

"You got in alright, then?" Harry whispers.

"No, he's still stuck in the bog."

"Aren't you just full of sarcasm today?" I say to Ron.

"It's horrible, isn't it?" Hermione says to Harry, who's staring up at the statues. "Have you seen what they're sitting on? Muggles. In their rightful place. Come on, let's get going."

We join the stream of wizards moving towards the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as discreetly as we can, though there's no sign of Umbridge. We pass through the gates into a smaller hall, where queues are forming into twenty golden grilles forming as many different lifts. We've barely joined the nearest one when a voice calls, "Cattermole!"

We look around, and my stomach drops. One of the Death Eaters there on the night of Dumbledore's death is striding towards us. The Ministry workers fall silent, their eyes darting to the floor. I can feel their fear. The man's scowling, brutish face contrasts with his magnificent robes, embroidered with golden thread. He ignores someone in the crowd calling, "Morning, Yaxley!"

"I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It's still raining in there."

Ron looks around, as though hoping someone might intervene, but nobody speaks.

"Raining... in your office? That - that's not good, is it?"

Ron gives a nervous laugh. Yaxley's eyes narrow.

"You think it's funny, Cattermole, do you?"

A pair of witches break away from the queue for the lift and bustle off.

"No," Ron says immediately, "no, of course - "

"You realise I'm about to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I'm quite surprised you're not there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure to marry a pureblood next time."

Hermione lets out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looks over at her. Hermione coughs feebly and turns away.

"I - I - I - " Ron stammers.

"But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood," Yaxley says, " - not that any woman I married would ever be accused of being such filth - and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my top priority to do that job. Do you understand me, Cattermole?"

"Yes," Ron whispers.

"Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within the house, your wife's Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now." The golden grille before us clatters open. With a nod and an unpleasant smile to Harry, who was apparently supposed to appreciate this time to behaviour, Yaxley turns and starts to walk away. He only takes a few steps, however, before he stops dead and turns back. This time, he looks directly at me.

"Well? Aren't you coming, Argent?" I look around quickly, as though making sure he's not speaking to a different Argent, before saying, "Me?"

"Yes, you," he says impatiently. "Do you not work for me?"

"Yes," I say quickly, "yes, I do, of course I do. Sorry, sir."

He gives me a suspicious look, before turning back around and sweeping away towards a different lift. I give Harry, Ron, and Hermione nervous looks, before hurrying after Yaxley with difficulty.

"Find a different lift," he tells the people clambering into the lift opposite, and they clear away immediately, looking frightened.

I don't like being in this lift alone with him, but I find myself with no other choice, so I step in to stand beside him.

"Do you have the report for me?" he asks.

"The - the report?" I say in a small voice.

"Yes, the report," Yaxley says, looking down at me with narrowed eyes. "The report about why we should be allowed to root Mudbloods who don't present themselves for interrogation from their homes and punish them more harshly? You did do it, did you not?"

"Yes, of course I did!" I say quickly, trying not to sound disgusted at this news. "I did, it's just - erm - in my office."

"Very well, then, let's go and get it quickly, so we can get to the courtroom," Yaxley says.

"The courtroom," I say slowly, before I remember what he had said about Cattermole's wife. "Right, the courtroom."

"Where you'll be verifying if they really are who they say they are," Yaxley points out, still staring at me. "I don't know what the hell's wrong with you today, but you better be ready to do this."

"I'm ready," I say quickly. "I'm definitely ready."

"Well, press the button, then," he says, facing forward again.

"The - the button?" I blink.

"The button of the lift!" Yaxley says, exasperated. "To get to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! So we can get to your office, get that report, and get on with the interrogations."

"Oh, right," I say, turning to look at the buttons of the lift. "That button. Which is..." I trail off, trying to remember each level from my last trip to the Ministry, "level... three? No - two! Level two, yes?"

"Yes, it's bloody level two!" he says, and I refrain from reaching for my wand. "What the hell has gotten into you? Keep this up and you'll be fired, I have no time for people this clueless."

"Sorry, sir," I say, as I press the button labelled '2'. "It's - erm - it's been a long morning."

 _Oh, bloody hell,_ I think.  _I'm fucked. I'm completely and totally fucked._

But then the doors are sliding shut and I'm trapped here with him.

There is no going back.


	15. Interrogations

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Fifteen: Interrogations**

 

It's strange, the amount of things a person can learn in five minutes. In five minutes, I've learned that in order to get to Natasha Argent's office, you are to go left, not right, but left from the lifts and that it's the fourth door down; I've learned that Natasha Argent likes to keep everything in a specific place, judging by how neat and orderly everything in her office is, but unfortunately, I have no idea what that place is; I've learned that it's apparently easy to hide a report, even in an office as small as this one; and I've learned that Yaxley has no patience.

"Hurry it up!" he snapped. "How could you not know where it is, is it not your office?"

"Well - it is," I say, shuffling through the papers on top of the desk. "Things are just a little - complicated today - "

"Maybe if you focused more on your work and not on men, you would be better off," Yaxley spat. "Is that your problem?"

Another thing I've learned in the past five minutes: Natasha Argent has a boyfriend. I learned this by having him, a tall man in his early twenties with bright green eyes, seeing me, walking up to me, and kissing me right in front of Yaxley (which hadn't done much to help with his impatience). Needless to say, it was an overall mortifying experience (not that he was a bad kisser, only I had absolutely no desire for him to kiss me).

"That may be a - oh, here it is!" I say, finally pulling out a document from one of the drawers entitled,  _The Next Step in Creating a Peaceful Pureblood Society: Uprooting Mudbloods from their Hiding Places_. Trying not to feel sick, I hand Yaxley the report and force a smile. "There you are."

"Yes, thank you for making me wait all this time for a report you should have had on you," Yaxley says boredly, rolling his eyes. "Now if you don't have any other creative ways to waste time, let's get moving so that we're not late for the interrogations."

"Right," I say, straightening up and following him out the door hurriedly. "Right, of course."

Once we're back in the lift, Yaxley looks over at me, eyes narrowed, and says, "You are ready to fulfil your role in these interrogations, I expect?"

"Ready as always," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. "I mean, it's what I do everyday, isn't it?"

"You're prepared for all of it? Summoning each of the Mudbloods, verifying their identity before Madam Umbridge handles them?" Yaxley presses on, looking disbelieving.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I say evasively, feeling privately relieved that he elaborated on it.

"Do you really need for me to answer that today?"

I don't say anything to that.

When the doors to the lift open again, we step out into a torch-lit stone passageway much different from the wood-panelled and carpeted floors above. As the lift rattles away again, I look over at the distant black door that marks the entrance to the Department of Mysteries and, feeling Yaxley's watchful eye on me, refrain from shuddering.

We start walking, me trailing a little behind Yaxley, not towards that black door, but a doorway I remember on the left-hand side, which opens onto a flight of stairs down to the court chambers. It occurs to me as we walk that I need to find a way out of here. I have no idea where Harry, Ron, and Hermione are, only able to assume that Ron's still working on the raining office, but I still don't know where Yaxley's office is, so that's not much help. And if I can't find Umbridge and get the locket from her, then this whole mission is useless. Still, I can't leave without Harry, Ron, and Hermione, so I might as well keep going with this until I figure out some kind of plan on how to get out of these interrogations and find them.

Lost in thought, I don't at first register the unnatural chill sweeping over me, as though I'm descending into fog. It becomes colder with every step that I take, a cold that reaches down my throat and rips up my lungs. And then I feel that sense of despair, of hopelessness, filling me up, swelling slowly inside of me...

Dementors.

As we reach the foot of the stairs I look to my right and see a horrible, horrible scene. The dark passage outside of the courtrooms is packed with the tall, black-hooded figures, their ragged breathing the only sound in the otherwise dead silent place. The terrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sit huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them have their faces in their hands, probably out of instinct to shield themselves from the horrible creatures' mouths. Some sit with family and friends. Others sit alone. The Dementors are gliding up and down in front of them and the cold, the hopelessness, the despair of the place threatens to strangle me.

My instinct tells me to fight it, but I don't dare risk casting a Patronus. I don't know if Yaxley has ever seen Natasha Argent cast a Patronus, but if he had and my Patronus is different from hers, it's going to take a lot to talk my way out of that one so I don't reveal myself.

"Argent! Why are you so bent on wasting my time today?" Yaxley said sharply, snapping me out of it, and I turn to look at him, jumping slightly. He looks over at the passage that I had been looking at and scoffs. "That's what you're so bothered about? It's like you've never seen some Dementors before. Now  _hurry_."

Silently, I follow Yaxley down the passage, and numbness threatens to steal over my brain, but I think determinedly of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who need me to keep it together, I think of Fred and George and Ginny, I think of the locket, how important it is we get to it. Moving through the towering black figures is terrifying: they turn to me as I pass, as though sensing me, sensing some human presence that hasn't given up all hope, all resilience.

And the, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen silence, one of the Muggle-borns leaps up and grasps onto Yaxley's robes, shaking and screaming, looking desperate.

"No, no, pleased, I'm not a Muggle-born, I'm a half-blood, half-blood, I'm telling you! My father, he's a well-known broomstick designer, Arkie Alderton, look him up! He's my father, I'm not Muggle-born, I swear - I swear - please - "

Yaxley throws the man off of him, looking down at him in disgust.

"If you try that again, you'll be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss," he spat. "Is that what you want?"

The man's screams subside, but dry sobs echo through the corridor. Yaxley continues on down the passage as though nothing has happened, and I follow, ignoring the feeling of my stomach twisting and turning.

The courtroom isn't the same one that Harry and I had been interrogated in for his improper use of magic. This one is much smaller, though the ceiling is quite high, giving the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well. There are more Dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place. They stand like faceless soldiers in the corners farthest from the high, raised platform.

As I examine those sitting at a balustrade, I see Hermione, still disguised as Mafalda Hopkirk, white-faced as she stares directly at me. When I see who's seated beside her, my heart stops. A squat, toad-like witch, wearing a velvet bow in her hair and clutching a clipboard. Umbridge.

Well, that just raised the stakes considerably.

"Yaxley! Argent! How nice of you to join us," Umbridge says, the comment turned scathing with the overly-feminine, condescending tone.

"Pardon, Madam Umbridge," Yaxley says casually. "Argent held us up. I expect she'll improve with time. At least, she better hope so."

He gives me a pointed look at that, and I avoid making eye contact. I follow him over to the platform, where he sits beside Umbridge, and I sit beside Yaxley, keeping as much distance as I can. As I do, I notice the silver, long-haired cat prowling up and down the platform, and I realise with a sudden surge of anger, that it's to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanates from the Death Eaters. That's for the accused, not the accusers.

"Now that everybody is here, I expect we can get started now," Umbridge says, and she and Yaxley look at me expectantly. I'm confused for a moment, until I remember what Yaxley had said: " _Summoning each of the Mudbloods, verifying their identity before Madam Umbridge handles them..._ "

"Oh," I say quickly, "er - yes, right. Who - who are we - we - who are we looking for?"

"Mafalda?" Dolores asks, turning to her.

"Oh we - we're looking for a Malcolm Bateman," Hermione says, fumbling as she shuffles through papers.

"I'll just go and - and get him," I say, and cross the courtroom quickly, dreading re-entering the passageway. I look at the hunched over Muggle-borns and hating myself for being so weak, so useless, for not doing something to help them, call, "Malcolm Bateman? It's - it's your turn now."

A man who had been sitting alone stands up. He's strong-looking, tall and muscular, but now he's shaking like a leaf and looks like he'll fall apart at the slightest touch. Guilt washes over me and I want to find some way to help him, to comfort him, but I know the comfort of Natasha Argent must mean nothing to him. I don't blame him.

I lead him into the court chambers, and when I sit on the platform again, Yaxley puts several sheets of parchment in front of me, looking irritated as he muttered, "You forgot about this. Big surprise."

I look down and see a list of all the Muggle-borns and their basic information. Where they live, if they're married, where they work, if they have children, what type of wand they have. I suppose this is what Yaxley meant by verifying their identity.

I look around awkwardly, before saying, "Er - you're Malcolm John Bateman, age thirty-five, correct?"

The man nods once, his hands in fists, and I recognise that tactic all too well. He's trying to stop them from shaking.

"Of number fifteen Sixth Street, London?" I continue.

He nods again.

"Ex-husband to Elaine Lance?"

He nods.

"Father to Isaac Bateman, age eight, and Jessica Bateman, age nine?"

He nods again, and I see tears in his eyes at the mention of his children. I feel angry at myself all over again for not being able to help him, his children.

"Please, my kids," he says, speaking for the first time. "After Elaine left, I'm all they have, I don't know what'll happen to them if I'm not around - "

"Save it," Yaxley says boredly. "You and your little children are no concern of ours, Mudblood."

"Your wand," I press on, fighting to keep my voice steady, "was it eleven and a half inches, oak, unicorn-hair core?"

Once again, he nods.

"Thank you, Miss Argent, that will be all for this one," Umbridge speaks up. She turns to Malcolm. "The wand you told Miss Argent you recognise - could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?"

For the first time, Malcolm looks confused, instead of miserable or terrified.

"T-took? I - I don't understand."

"It is a relatively simple question, Mr. Bateman," Umbridge says, in that calm voice that makes me want to strangle her. "Would you like me to repeat it?"

"I - I didn't take that wand from anybody! It's mine, I got it when I was eleven, same as all of you up there - "

"Liar," Umbridge says dismissively. "You are not the same as us, and you know it, don't you, Mr. Bateman? So, can you now tell us which witch or wizard you stole from when you obtained your wand."

"But I didn't steal from anybody!" he said desperately. "Please, believe me, please! I got it from Ollivander when I was eleven, I didn't steal - "

"Let's move on," Umbridge says, speaking over him. "In what way did you obtain your magic? Of course, you must have stolen it from another witch or wizard, most likely the one whose wand you stole, but how specifically? How did you manage to steal a proper wizard's magic?"

"I didn't steal magic, my wand, I didn't steal anything, I didn't do anything wrong!" Malcolm insists. "I got my wand when I was eleven at Ollivander's, and I was just born with my magic! Please, I didn't steal anything - "

"Mr. Bateman," Umbridge says, with a breathy little laugh that makes me want to attack her. "Your lies are not believed here, nor are they tolerated or accepted. Be honest and we may punish you more lightly for your crimes."

"But I haven't committed any crimes, please - " he says desperately.

"Unwilling to loosen your tongue, I see," Umbridge says in disappointment, letting out a very fake sigh. "Very well, then. Perhaps sometime in our dungeon shall turn you against telling lies, and if not, I'm sure there is room in Azkaban for the likes of you. Perhaps then you will learn that theft will not be tolerated in our world. Take him away."

Two Dementors drag him away, out of the courtroom, while Malcolm Bateman begs and pleads for us to understand, to believe him, to just listen, but it's a hopeless battle, and the look in his eyes tells me that he knows.

"So," Yaxley turns to me, looking undisturbed, when Malcolm's yells have faded away, "who's next?"

I refer to the list and, taking a deep breath, read out, "Oliver Blake."

The interrogations of the next three Muggle-borns goes the same way. I bring them into the courtroom, verify their identity, and watch with extreme guilt as Umbridge rips them apart and ends up sending them to their dungeons, with the threat of Azkaban looming over their heads. Hermione is recording everything that's said, as that's supposedly Mafalda's job, and we exchange glances frequently. It's clear that she's thinking what I am. We need to get out of here, and quickly. But how do we both leave without causing a scene?

"Bring in the next Mudblood," Umbridge says, after a woman no older than twenty gets dragged away by two Dementors, screaming and crying.

I look down at the list and see the name:  _Cattermole, Mary_. I think of the man Ron's disguised himself into and fee guilt. Had it not been for us, at least this woman would've had her husband to support her during something so horrific. Still, I force myself to get up and re-enter the passageway. I'm about to call Mary's name when the same Muggle-born who had jumped onto Yaxley's robes leaps forward to grip onto me, wild-eyed and pleading.

"Please, please, I beg of you, listen - help - please - please!" he begs. "I'm half-blood, half-blood, please, please - "

I take his hands off of my robes and grip onto them tightly, saying quietly and urgently, "You can't keep doing this, do you understand? You can't. If they catch you you'll have to go through the Dementor's Kiss, and then you'll be worse than dead. I'm sorry - I'm sorry, but I can't help you. Please, just help yourself, as best as you can. Please."

He looks up at me in silence, before lapsing into dry sobs again and collapsing against the wall. I tear my eyes away from him with difficulty.

"Mary Cattermole."

A small woman stands up, trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair is smoothed back into a bun and she wears long, plain robes. Her face is completely bloodless. As the two of us pass the Dementors, I notice her shudder.

"Sit down," Umbridge says in her silky voice, as I seat myself at the platform again.

"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" I ask, only able to think about how lonely, how small she looks sitting in that chair by herself.

Mrs. Cattermole gives a single, shaky nod.

"Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?" I continue.

Mrs. Cattermole bursts into tears.

"I don't know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!"

Hermione and I exchange guilty looks.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," I say, and Yaxley rolls his eyes. "And you're mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?"

Mrs. Cattermole sobs harder than ever.

"They're frightened, they think I might not come home - "

"Spare us," Yaxley says. "The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies."

_Does anything stir your sympathies?_

Under the sound of Mrs. Cattermole's sobs, just loud enough for me to hear it as it's right by my ear, a voice, Harry's voice, says, "I'm behind you."

Gasping, I jump slightly, before I calm myself down quickly, trying not to cause too much suspicion.

"Well, Argent?" Yaxley says expectantly. "Keep going!"

"Right, right, sorry," I say breathlessly. "Erm - Mrs. Cattermole, the wand that was taken from you when you arrived was - er - eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Is this your wand?"

Mrs. Cattermole nods, mopping her eyes on her sleeve. Just as she does, I notice, out of the corner of my eye, Hermione jumps so violently she overturns the bottle of ink she had been using, and I know Harry has alerted her of his presence, too. Luckily, Umbridge and Yaxley are so fixated on Mrs. Cattermole, they don't notice.

"Could you please tell us from witch or wizard you took that wand?" Umbridge jumps in, indecently eager.

"T-took?" sobs Mrs. Cattermole. "I didn't t-take it from anybody. I b-b-bought it when I was eleven. It - it - it chose me."

She cries harder than ever.

Umbridge laughs a small, girlish laugh that reminds me of how much I hate her (as if I needed the reminder). She leans forward, the better to observe her victim, and something swings forward, something gold, dangling over the void. The locket. Apparently, Hermione has seen it, too, because she lets out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, so intent upon their prey, are deaf to everything else.

"No," Umbridge says, "no, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here."

Umbridge holds out a hand, looking so toad-like that I'm surprised there aren't webs between her fingers. Hermione's hands are shaking with shock, and I'm hardly any better. She fumbles with a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole's name on it.

"That - that's pretty, Dolores," Hermione says, indicating the locket gleaming among the ruffled folds of Umbridge's blouse.

"Gorgeous," I jump in, trying to sound natural. "Where did you get it?"

"What?" Umbridge snaps, glancing down. "Oh, yes - an old family heirloom," she pats the locket lying on her chest. "The S stands for Selwyn... I am related to the Selwyns... indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related... a pity," she says in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole's questionnaire, while I wonder why I'm even surprised by her lie, "that the same cannot be said for you. Parents' professions: greengrocers."

Yaxley laughs jeeringly. Then a floating hand appears from nowhere, a wand pointed directly at Umbridge, and Harry's voice is crying, " _Stupefy!_ "

There's a flash of red light, and Umbridge crumples, her forehead hitting the balustrade. Mrs. Cattermole's papers slide off her lap and onto the floor, and down below, the prowling silver cat vanishes. Ice-cold air hits us like an oncoming wind.

Yaxley, confused, looks around at the source of the spell, sees Harry's disembodied hand, and reaches for his wand, but he's too slow for me, as I've been clutching onto my wand since Harry had informed me of his presence, ready to strike at any moment. I point my wand quickly at him and cry, "Stupefy!"

Yaxley slides to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

"Harry!" Hermione cries.

"Hermione, if you think I'm going to sit here and let her pretend - "

"Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!" Harry, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak, and I both look down. The Dementors have moved out of the corners, gliding towards Mrs. Cattermole, still chained to her chair. Whether because they realised that the Patronus has disappeared or that their masters are no longer in control, they seem to have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole lets out a terrible scream as a slimy, scabbed hand grabs her chin and forces her face back.

" _EXPECTO PATRONUM!_ " Harry yells, and the silver stag bursts from Harry's wand and leaps towards the Dementors, who fall back and melt into the shadows again. The stag's light, more warming and powerful than the cat's, fills the whole dungeon as it canters around the room. While this happens, I hurry over to Umbridge, stepping over Yaxley to retrieve the locket.

"Aw, isn't this just like old times, Umbridge?" I mutter, taking the locket off of her and throwing it around my neck.

"Wait, Hazel," Hermione grabs onto my arm. "Stop."

"What the hell d'you mean, stop?" I demand.

"I mean, that if she wakes up and it's gone... you should duplicate it first. Here, let me see it."

I take the locket off of my neck and hand it to her. Hermione points her wand at it and says, " _Geminio!_ There, that should fool her."

She hands the original back to me, and I put it back around my neck, tucking it into my robes, while Hermione puts the duplicate around Umbridge's neck.

"Hazel, Hermione," Harry calls up to us, standing beside Mrs. Cattermole and tugging at the chains binding her, "how do I get rid of these chains?"

We approach the chair quickly, before Hermione says, "Let's see...  _Relashio!_ "

The chains clink and withdraw from the arms of the chair. Mrs. Cattermole looks as terrified as ever.

"I don't understand," she whispers.

"You're going to leave here with us," Harry says, pulling her to her feet. "Go home, grab your children, get out, get out of the country and run. Disguise yourselves if you've got to. You've seen how it is, you won't get anything close to a fair hearing here."

"Harry," Hermione says, "how are we going to get out of here with all those Dementors out there?"

"Patronuses," Harry replies, pointing his wand at his own. The stag slows and walks, still gleaming brightly, towards the door. "As many as we can muster. Do yours, Hazel, Hermione."

I raise my wand and, focusing very carefully on any happy memory I can think of, say, " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Relief floods through me when the familiar silver coyote bursts from my wand, running circles around me before bounding over towards the stag, like they know each other.

" _Expec - Expecto Patronum!_ " Hermione says. Nothing happens.

"It's the only spell she ever has trouble with," Harry informs a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole. "Bit unfortunate, really... come on, Hermione."

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A silver otter bursts from the end of Hermione's wand and swims gracefully to join the stag and the coyote.

"There we are," I say cheerfully. "Let's get going."

I lead Harry, Hermione, and Mrs. Cattermole to the door.

When the Patronuses glide out of the door, there are cries of shock from the people waiting outside. I look around. There are Dementors falling back on all sides, melding into the darkness, scattering from the silvery creatures.

"Change of plans, everyone," I say to the group at large, and I glance over at the man who had been insisting he was a half-blood. "As it appears, there is something I can do. New wizarding decree - you all have to leave. Now. Go home, find your friends, your family, anyone and anything that's of extreme importance to you, and get out of here. Go into hiding, get out of the country if you must, but get away from all of this. It's been unanimously agreed that it's no longer safe here. And that's - er - official legislation. Now, if you'll all follow the Patronuses, you'll be able to leave the Atrium."

We manage to get to the stone steps without being intercepted, but when we reach the lifts I start getting a little anxious. I get the distinct feeling that if we emerge into the Atrium with three Patronuses and twenty or so people, nearly all of them accused Muggle-borns, we'll get some unwanted attention. I've just come to this conclusion when the lift clangs to a halt in front of us.

"Reg!" Mrs. Cattermole screams, and throws herself into Ron's arms. "Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge, and she - Argent - she attacked Yaxley, and they've told us to get out of the country! I think we should do it, Reg, I really do, we should hurry home and fetch the children - why are you so wet?"

"Water," he replies, disengaging himself. "Harry, they know there are intruders from inside of the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge's door. I reckon we've got five minutes if that - "

Hermione's Patronus disappears with a popping noise as she turns, horror-struck, to face us.

"Harry, if we're trapped here - "

"We won't be if we move fast," Harry says determinedly, then turns to face the group at large, all of whom are gaping at him. "Who's got wands?"

About half of them raise their hands.

"Okay, all of you who haven't got wands needs to attack themselves to someone who does. We'll need to be fast before they can stop us. Come on."

We manage to cram ourselves into two lifts. My coyote stands guard before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts begin to rise. I know I don't really need it anymore, but it's a comfort to have, and I get the feeling some of the Muggle-borns feel safer having it with them.

"Level eight," says the cool witch's voice, "Atrium."

I realise at once that we're in trouble. The Atrium is full of people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing us off.

"This isn't good," Ron mutters.

"Tell me something I don't know," I reply.

"STOP!" Harry thunders, and it's the deep voice of Runcorn that echoes across the Atrium. The wizard sealing the fireplaces freeze. "Follow me," he whispers to the terrified Muggle-borns, who move forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron, Hermione, and I.

"What's up, Albert?" says a balding wizard, looking nervous.

"This lot needs to leave before you seal the exits," Harry replies.

The group of wizards in front of him look at each other.

"We were told to seal the exits and not let anybody - "

"Are you contradicting me?" Harry blusters. "Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I did with Dirk Cresswell's?"

"Sorry!" the balding wizard gasps, backing away. "I didn't mean nothing, Albert, but I thought... I thought they were in for questioning and..."

"Their blood is pure," Harry says, his voice echoing impressively throughout the Atrium. "Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go," he booms to the Muggle-borns, who scurry over to the fireplaces and vanish in pairs. The Ministry hand back, some confused, some scared and fearful. Then - 

"Mary!"

Mrs. Cattermole looks over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting, but still pale and weak-looking, has just come running out of a lift.

"R-Reg?"

She looks from her husband to Ron, who swears loudly.

"Of course," I murmur.

The balding wizard gapes, looking incredulously between one Reg Cattermole and the other.

"Hey - what's going on? What is this?"

"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!"

Yaxley has appeared out of another lift and is running to the group besides the fireplaces, into which all the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole have vanished.

"Are you bloody kidding me?" I hiss.

As the balding wizard lifts his wand, Harry raises an enormous fist and punches him, sending him flying through the air.

"He's been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!" Harry shouts.

The balding wizard's colleagues set up an uproar, under which Ron grabs Mrs. Cattermole, pulls her into the still-open fireplace, and disappears. Confused, Yaxley looks from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole is yelling, "My wife! Who was that with my wife? What is going on?"

Yaxley looks around, at a loss, until his eyes land on me. His eyes narrow, and he yells, looking furious, "YOU!"

"Time to go," I mutter, seize Harry and Hermione's hands, and leap into the fireplace, as Yaxley's curse soars over our heads. We spin for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. I fling open the door; Ron is standing there by the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.

"Reg, I don't understand - "

"Let go, I'm not your husband, you've got to go home!"

There's a noise in the cubicle beside them. I look around to see that Yaxley's just appeared.

"And again, time to  _go!_ "

I seize Harry and Hermione's hands again, Harry grabs onto Ron's arm, and turn on the spot to Disapparate. Darkness engulfs us, along with the sensation of compressing hands, but then I feel Yaxley's hand on the back of my robes. Feeling shocked, my grip on Harry and Hermione slips slightly and I try to fight him off, shaking him off desperately, but it doesn't work, he keeps gripping onto me.

We appear on the front step of Grimmauld Place, but Yaxley's still there, still holding onto me, and Grimmauld Place is no longer safe from Death Eaters. Before anyone can do anything else, I shake him off, kicking him away until he's let go, redouble my grip on Harry and Hermione, and Disapparate again, and this time, no one else is holding on while the darkness surrounds us.


	16. Splinched

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Sixteen: Splinched**

 

When we land and I open my eyes again, I squint slightly, being dazzled by bright gold and green. Gripping onto my wand, I prop myself onto my elbows and realise that we're in the woods where the Quidditch World Cup was held. I don't know why I had decided to Apparate there, but for some reason or another, it had been the first thing to come to mind.

I hear a groan of pain and sit up straighter, looking around in alarm, my wand at the ready, until I realise that we at least appear to be quite alone in these woods. The groan of pain came from Rom, who's halfway between himself and Cattermole in appearance, and my heart drops when I realise why. Blood drenches the whole of his left side and his face stands out, grey-ish white, against the leaf-strewn earth.

"Ron?" I say, panicked. "RON!"

I scramble to my feet and run over to him, kicking off the heels in order to reach him faster, kneeling down beside him. I know immediately what's happened to him. When I had Disapparated from Grimmauld Place, I had still been so shaken, so panicked, so rushed, that I hadn't been concentrating the way I should've been, and now Ron's paying the price. He Splinched. Because of me.

I find where the bleeding is thickest and darkest, his arm, and tear open his shirt as Harry and Hermione join me, each looking terrified. I had always thought Splinching to be something funny, but this... my stomach turns as I reveal Ron's upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh has gone missing, scooped away cleanly as though by a knife.

"What's happened to him?" Harry asks.

"Splinched."

"Harry, quickly, in my bag," Hermione says, "there's a small bottle labelled 'Essence of Dittany' - "

"Bag - right - "

Harry speeds over to where Hermione had landed, seizes the bag, and thrusts his hand inside of it. I rip up some of Natasha's robes and use it to clean up and stop some of the bleeding, though it's not much help.

When Harry comes up with nothing, Hermione says, "Quickly!"

Finally, he grabs his wand, pointing it at the bag, and says, " _Accio Dittany!_ "

A small brown bottle zooms out of the bag. Harry catches it and hastens back to us, where Ron's eyes are now half-closed, strips of white eyeball being all that's visible between his eyelids.

"He's fainted," Hermione says, looking rather pale herself. She no longer looks like Mafalda, but her hair is still grey in places. "Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking."

Harry wrenches the stopper off the bottle and hands it to Hermione, who pours three drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowing upwards and when it clears, I see, to my immense relief, that the bleeding has stopped. The wound now looks several days old; new skin stretches over what had once been open flesh.

"Wow," Harry says.

"It's all I feel safe doing," Hermione says shakily. "There are spells that would heal him completely, but I daren't try them in case I do it wrong and cause more damage... he's lost so much blood already..."

"You've done brilliantly, Hermione," I say, rubbing my face blearily.

 _A hell of a lot better than I've done,_ I think to myself.

I realise somewhere, in the back of my mind, from the way that my skin looks paler than Natasha Argent's, even with my fear, and the fact that my hair falls down my shoulder, longer and straighter and darker, and the way her robes don't fit me right anymore, that I've turned back into my normal self.

"How did he get hurt? I mean - " Harry shakes his head - "why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?"

I take a deep breath, looking down at the ground guiltily and shaking my head.

"I'm - I'm sorry, but I - I don't think we'll be able to go back there any time soon."

"What d'you - ?"

"As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I couldn't shake him off, he was too strong and it's kind of hard to fight someone while you're Apparating. He was still holding on when we got to Grimmauld Place, but I - I think he saw the door and thought we were stopping there, because he loosened his grip a little, enough for me to shake him off, and I brought us here instead."

"But then, where is he? Hang on... you don't mean he's at Grimmauld Place? He can't get in there?"

I nod slowly, trying my best to stay calm and not lose my head completely.

"I think he can, Harry," I say. "I managed to get him to let go, but I'd already taken him inside the Fidelius Charm's protection. Since Dumbledore died, we're all Secret Keepers, and now I've gone and given him the secret, haven't I?"

I can see from the looks on their faces that I'm right.

"And Kreacher's in there!" I say, thinking of the house-elf, now much warmer and friendlier, probably now hastening to make a steak-and-kidney pie that we'll never eat, and feel a stab of guilt that has nothing to do with food. "Oh, who knows what they'll do to him! God, I'm sorry, guys, I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do - "

"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault! If anything, it was mine..."

Harry puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a bright blue eyeball that I recognise as Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye. Hermione recoils, looking horrified, but I just look from the eye to Harry in surprise.

"Umbridge had stuck it to her office door to spy on people. I couldn't leave it there... but that's how they knew there were intruders."

I want to tell Harry that he'd done the right thing to remove it, that it didn't belong anywhere near Umbridge, but before I can, Ron groans and opens his eyes. He's still grey and his face is glistening with sweat.

"How d'you feel?" Hermione whispers.

"Lousy," Ron croaks, wincing as he feels his injured arm, and I try to ignore my guilt as I stare at him. "Where are we?"

"The woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup," I reply. "I dunno why, but I wanted somewhere enclosed, undercover, and this was just - "

"The first place you thought of," Harry finishes for me.

I watch the look on his face and realising that he's remembering the last time we appeared at the first place one of us had thought of - how Death Eaters had found is within minutes. Remus had said that Harry couldn't still have the Trace on him, so how did they know? Was it Legilimency? Does Voldemort and his Death Eaters know, even right at this moment, where we were?

"D'you reckon we should move on?" Ron asks, clearly thinking the same thing.

"I dunno."

Ron looks pale and clammy. He makes no attempt to sit up and it appears that he's too weak to do so. The prospect of him moving right now is not a favourable one.

"Let's stay here for now," Harry finally says.

Relieved, I spring to my feet, deciding that if we're going to stay, I should put up those protective enchantments Hermione and I had been going over.

"Where are you going?" Ron asks.

"If we're staying, we should put up some protective enchantments around the place," I reply, beginning to walk in a wide circle around Harry, Ron, and Hermione, muttering all the incantations we had gone over as I go. I know I'm doing it right when I see little disturbances in the air, as though I'm casting a heat haze upon the clearing. " _Salvio Hexia... Protego Totalum... Repello Muggletum... Muffliato..._ Harry, Hermione, we could probably get the tent up right about now..."

"Ten?" Harry's voice says.

"In the bag," Hermione's voice responds.

I hear Harry cast another Summoning Charm, then say, "I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins from the Ministry?"

"Apparently, he didn't want it back, his lumbago's so bad," Hermione says, as I begin performing a tricky little charm that involves making complicated figure-eight movements with my wand, "so Ron's dad said I could borrow it.  _Erecto!_ "

" _Cave Inimicum!_ " I finish, pointing my wand at the sky, then turning around to see that the tent - the same tent that we had used during the Quidditch World Cup, strong scent of cats and everything - has been set up perfectly. "That's as much as I can do. At the very least, we should be able to know if they're coming. I mean, I can't guarantee that it'll keep out Vold - "

"Don't say the name!" Ron cuts across me, his voice harsh. Harry, Hermione, and I look at each other.

"Sorry," he moans, as he raises himself up a little to look at us, "but it feels like a - a jinx or something. Can't we call him You-Know-Who - please?"

"Dumbledore said fear of a name - " Harry begins.

"In case you hadn't noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore much good in the end," Ron snaps. "Just - just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?"

"Respect?" Harry repeats incredulously, but I shoot him a warning look. While I don't agree with Ron, I don't think it's best to allow Ron to get too heated while he's in this condition. Besides, since I'm the reason he's in this situation, I'm not really in a place to be able to argue with him.

Harry, Hermione, and I half-carry, half-drag Ron into the entrance of the tent, which is exactly as I remember it. A small flat, complete with a kitchen and bathroom. Harry shoves aside an old armchair and we lower Ron onto the lower bed of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey turns Ron whiter still, and once we've settled him onto the mattress, he closes his eyes again and does not speak for some time. Once again, I feel relieved that we're not going to be moving any time soon.

"I'll make some tea," Hermione says breathlessly, pulling a kettle and some mugs from the depths of her bag and heading toward the kitchen.

The hot drink is welcome to me as the firewhiskey had been the night of Mad-Eye's death. It seems to burn away a little of the fear, of the panic fluttering in my chest. After a minute or so, Ron breaks the silence.

"What d'you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?"

"With any luck, they'll have got away," Hermione replies, clutching her hot mug for comfort. "As long as Mr. Cattermole has his wits about him, he'll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they'll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That's what Harry told her to do."

"Blimey, I hope they escaped," Ron says, leaning back on his pillows. Luckily, the tea seems to be doing him some good, since some of the colour has returned to his face. "I didn't get the feeling that Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way people were talking to me while I was him. God, I hope they made it... if they both end up in Azkaban because of us..."

Out of the corner of my mouth, I see Harry open his mouth to speak, but then close it abruptly. I follow his gaze, and see Hermione watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles with such tenderness in her expression it's like Ron had surprised her by kissing her.

"So, have you got it?" Harry says, turning to me instead, snapping Hermione out of her stupor.

"The Horcrux? Yeah, that I did right, I've got it here - " I begin.

"You got it?" Ron shouts, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. "No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could've mentioned it!"

"Well, we were running for our lives from Death Eaters, weren't we? With all the adrenaline, I forgot to give you an update, didn't I?" I say. "Here."

I remove the Horcrux from around my neck and hand it to Ron. As I do, I feel a sudden weight off my chest, as though the Horcrux had been pressing down on me, suffocating me, but in all the panic and fear and adrenaline, I hadn't even noticed until I was relieved of it. Then again - it was a Horcrux, after all. What else could I have expected?

The locket itself is as large as a chicken's egg. An ornate letter S, inlaid with many green stones, glinted dully in the diffused light from the tent's canvas roof.

"There isn't any chance it was destroyed while Kreacher had it?" Ron asks hopefully. "I mean, are we sure it's still a Horcrux?"

"I think it is," I reply. "There would be some sign of damage if it had been destroyed beyond magical repair, wouldn't there? Besides, while I had it on, it had this sort of... effect on me. I had barely noticed in everything that was happening, but it was sort of like it was strangling me. And everything around me felt so much worse than it does now that it's off. I dunno, but that sounds like the side effect of a Horcrux to me."

I pass it to Hermione, and then Harry, who turn it over in their fingers, studying it closely.

"I reckon Kreacher's right," Harry says, looking up. "I think we're going to have to open this thing if we want to destroy it."

Harry tries to pry the locket open with his fingers, but it doesn't budge. He tries the charm Hermione used to open Regulus' bedroom door, but that doesn't work either. He hands the locket back to Ron, Hermione, and I, and we all try our best to open it, but nothing works.

"Can you feel it, though?" Ron says in a hushed voice, clutching the locket tightly in his hand.

"What d'you mean?" Harry says, but I understand. It was another thing I had noticed only by its absence. The thudding in my chest hadn't just been my own heartbeat. It had been like there was a tiny metal heart in that locket, beating just as mine was.

Ron hands the locket to Harry and, after a moment of holding it, he seems to understand, too.

"What are we going to do with it?" Hermione asks.

"Keep it safe until we work out how to destroy it," Harry replies, putting the locket on and dropping it out of sight beneath his robes. "I think we should take it in turns to keep watch outside the tent," he adds to Hermione and I, getting up and stretching. "And we'll need to think about food as well. You stay there," Harry adds sharply to Ron, who tries to sit up further and turns a nasty shade of green.

With the Sneakoscope Hermione had given Harry set carefully on the table in the tent, Harry, Hermione, and I spend the rest of the day sharing the role of the lookout. However, the Sneakoscope remains silent and still on its point all day, and whether it's because of the protective enchantments or because people rarely venture this way, our patch of woods remains deserted, except for the occasional bird or squirrel. Evening brings no change, either, and I walk back into the tent at ten o'clock, swapping places with Harry, settling into the old armchair and flicking through  _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , as though expecting to find some new, hidden information on destroying Horcruxes.

I'm starting to feel hungry now, not to mention a little lightheaded. Hermione had not packed any food with her in her magical bag, assuming that we'd be going back to Grimmauld Place that night. Therefore, we had nothing to eat except for some wild mushrooms Hermione had collected among the nearest trees and stewed in a Billycan. After a couple of mouthfuls, Ron had pushed his portion away. Harry and I only persevered to avoid hurting Hermione's feelings.

Unable to find any new information from  _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and unsurprised by this, I finally shut the book and place it on the table, careful not to disturb the Sneakoscope. I pull out my Cross of Elements instead, but for the first time, I'm not thinking of the ring and its purpose and why Dumbledore gave it to me as I study it, only able to think of the Horcrux.

I had thought I would feel elated if we managed to take the Horcrux, feel as though we've accomplished something huge and important, but I don't. If anything, I only feel helpless, only able to think of what will happen next. We might have the Horcrux in our possession, but the fact is that none of us have any idea how to actually destroy it. And now that we have this Horcrux, all I can think about is getting hold of all the other ones. But as far as any of us are aware, unless Harry has some new insight he's yet to share with us, we don't have a clue where any of them are. We don't even know what all of them actually are to begin with, only that it's probably that they have some sort of magical significance. But still, that could be  _anything_. And Voldemort... he must've used powerful magic to hide and protect them, how are we going to manage to get to them?

I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I hear Harry let out a strangled scream from outside. I jump up, nearly tripping over my own two feet. I look over at the Sneakoscope, but it still hasn't moved. I exchange frightened looks with Ron and Hermione, before the latter and I hurry out of the tent to reach Harry. Nobody is there but Harry, who's passed out and sprawled on the ground, clutching his forehead.

"Harry? HARRY!"

His eyes fly open, panting, looking around wildly. When his eyes settle on Hermione and I, he sees my worried look and Hermione's glower and tries to look innocent.

"Dream," he says, sitting up quickly. "Must've dozed off, sorry."

"We know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol - "

"Don't say his name!" comes Ron's angry voice from the depths of the tent.

"Fine," Hermione retorts, "You-Know-Who's mind, then!"

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" Harry insists. "It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?"

"If you just learned to apply Occlumency - "

"He's found Gregorovitch," Harry cuts across her, "and I think he's killed him, but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw - "

"I think I'd better take watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep," Hermione says coldly.

"I can finish the watch!"

"No, you've obviously exhausted. Go and lie down."

She drops down in the mouth of the tent, looking stubborn. When I see Harry looks stubborn, I give him a look, warning him not to start now, and lead him back inside the tent.

Ron's still-pale face is poking out from the lower bunk; Harry climbs into the one above, while I settle down into the armchair again. After several moments, Ron speaks so low that Hermione, huddled at the mouth of the tent, cannot hear him.

"What's You-Know-Who doing?"

There's another silence, before Harry replies, "He's found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was torturing him."

"How's Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he's tied up?"

"I dunno... it's weird, isn't it?"

"Unless Vold - You-Know-Who," I correct myself irritably, when Ron shoots me a warning look, "unless  _You-Know-Who_ doesn't want Gregorovitch to make him a wand."

"Well, what would he want from him, then?" Ron asks.

"I don't know," I admit, shrugging. "Harry, did Vol - oh,  _honestly_ , Ron - fine - Harry, did  _You-Know-Who_ mention anything else?"

"He... he wanted something from Gregorovitch," Harry says thoughtfully. "He asked him to hand it over, but then Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him, and then... and then...

"He read Gregorovitch's mind, and I saw this young bloke perched on a windowsill, and he fired a curse at Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, he stole whatever You-Know-Who's after. And... and I think I've seen him somewhere..."

There's a silence, as I think this over, until Ron asks what I'm thinking. "Couldn't you see what the thief was holding?"

"No... but it must have been something small."

Ron's bunk creaks as he re-positions himself in his bed. I curl up in the armchair, turning the Cross of Elements over in my fingers.

"You don't reckon You-Know-Who's after to turn something else into another Horcrux?" Ron asks.

"I don't know," Harry says slowly. "Maybe."

"It'd be dangerous, though," I point out. "He's already pushed himself to the limit by splitting his soul in seven. Would he really risk it when he's basically one step away from having complete control of the Wizarding world?"

"Well, maybe that's why he's risking it," Ron says. "He's making sure he's got an extra Horcrux to be safe, in case anyone else tries to come after him. Besides, maybe he doesn't know he's pushed himself to the limit."

"Yeah... maybe," Harry says.

After that, we lapse into silence, while I continue staring and playing with the Cross of Elements, thinking over what Harry has told us. If Voldemort's not interested in a new wand, then what is he after? I suppose a new Horcrux is possible, but still unlikely. And with Gregorovitch gone and out of the way, it's the person who stole the object from Gregorovitch that Voldemort's going to go after next. Anything Voldemort wants to use is bound to not be any good, so I hope wherever that thief is, he's far, far away from Voldemort's reach, though I doubt it.

Leaning back into the chair and letting out a sigh, I think about Gregorovitch's death and wonder vaguely how many more people will have to die until Voldemort decides that he's satisfied.


	17. That Which Makes it Stronger

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Seventeen: That Which Makes it Stronger**

 

When I wake up the next morning, I look around to find that Ron and Hermione are both fast asleep, but Harry's gone. Wondering if he had just gotten an early start on taking watch, I wander outside of the tent and look around, but he's nowhere to be found. I want to go looking for him, but don't even know where to start, so I decide to wait a little while before doing anything. I take my Cross of Elements out of my pocket and place it on my finger, watching it turn from fire, to air, to water, then earth again. When it changes back to air, I notice the slight breeze blowing outside, before returning my focus back to the rapidly swirling ball of wind on the ring.

Suddenly, that slight breeze speeds up rapidly, until wind is blowing about wildly all around me, shaking branches dangerously. Shocked, I focus on the ball of wind again and focus on making it all stop, and before I know it, there is no wind at all, and the air is perfectly still. I look around in surprise, before lowering my eyes to the ring again and focusing on that light breeze from before, and soon the wind is back to normal. I look down at the ring in shock as it turns back into a ball of obsidian.

Before I can do anything else, I hear footsteps. My head snaps up, but, to my relief, it's only Harry approaching, looking surprised to see me.

"Did Hermione have to drag you out of bed?"

"And where were you?" I demand, ignoring his comment. "I was worried sick."

"I went to bury Mad-Eye's eye," he admitted. "I couldn't do much, but I think Mad-Eye would've liked that better than being stuck on Umbridge's door."

My anger fades away at this news, and I nod. Knowing that his death had been honoured in some way makes me feel at least somewhat better about it.

"I think so, too," I say softly. "Good on you, Harry."

Harry, Hermione, and I all agree that it's best that we don't stay in one place too long, and Ron agrees as well, under the condition that our next move takes us within reach of a bacon sandwich. Therefore, I remove all the enchantments I had placed around the clearing, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione obliterate all the impressions and marks on the ground that might show that we had camped here. Then, we Disapparate to the outskirts of a small market town.

Once we've pitched the tent in the shelter of a small corpse of trees and surround the place with a fresh set of protective enchantments, Harry ventures out under the Invisibility Cloak to find food. However, he returns very soon empty-handed, looking pale and out of breath, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak and mouthing the word, "Dementors."

"But you can cast a brilliant Patronus!" Ron protests.

"I couldn't... make one," he pants, clutching a stitch in his side. "Wouldn't... come."

"So, we still haven't got any good?" Ron says.

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione snaps. "Harry, what happened? Why do you think you couldn't cast a Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday!"

"I don't know," Harry admits, sitting in one of Perkins' armchairs and looking humiliated.

Ron kicks a chair leg.

"What?" he snarls at Hermione. "I'm starving! All I've had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!"

"You go and fight your way through Dementor, then," Harry retorts, stung.

"I would, but my arm's in a sling, in case you haven't noticed!"

"That's convenient."

"And what's that supposed to - " Ron begins furiously, but then I notice something golden glinting on Harry's neck in the light and realise something: Harry's still wearing the Horcrux. I remember how light, how free, how much better I had felt after I had taken off the Horcrux, and I hadn't even been wearing it that long. Harry's been wearing it since yesterday. No wonder he couldn't cast a Patronus.

"Wait!" I say quickly, actually holding up both hands to stop the argument. "Harry, give me the locket! Come on," I say impatiently, holding out my hand when he doesn't react, "the Horcrux, Harry, you're still wearing it!"

Finally, Harry lifts the gold chain from his neck and hands it to me. I take it, watching his face carefully.

"Better?" I ask expectantly.

"Yeah, loads!" Harry says.

"See, the same thing happened to me yesterday," I say. "I didn't even realise how horrible it felt until I took it off."

"But," Hermione says, looking between the two of us and using the same kind of voice associated with visiting the very ill, "you two haven't been possessed, have you?"

"What? No!" Harry says defensively. "I remember everything I've done while wearing it. I wouldn't know what I'd done if I'd been possessed, would I? Ginny said there were times she couldn't remember anything."

When Hermione still looks unconvinced, I jump in, saying, "Hermione, it's not like it completely controls you or anything like that. More like... it influences you. Affects how you feel, which probably really messes up your ability to do spells, especially something like casting a Patronus."

"Hmm," Hermione says, looking down at the heavy locket, still in my hands. "Well, maybe we ought not wear it. We can just keep it in the tent."

"We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around," Harry says firmly. "If it gets lost, or stolen - "

"Oh, alright, alright," Hermione says. "But we'll take turns wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long."

"Fine by me," I shrug, and place the locket around my own neck, tucking it down the front of my shirt."

"Great," Ron says irritably, "and now that we've got that sorted out, can we please get some food?"

"Fine, but we'll go somewhere else to find it," Hermione says, half-glancing at Harry. "There's no point staying where we know Dementors are swooping around."

In the end, we settle down for the night in a far flung field belonging to a lonely farm, from which we obtain eggs and bread.

"It's not stealing, is it?" Hermione asks, looking troubled, as we devour scrambled eggs on toast. "Not if I left money under the chicken coop?"

Ron rolls his eyes and says, his cheeks bulging, "Er-my-nee, 'oo worry 'oo much. Relax!"

And, indeed, it does become much easier to relax once we're all well-fed. The argument about Dementors is forgotten in all our laughter that night, and I feel surprisingly cheerful when it's my turn to take watch that night.

This is our first experience with the discovery that a full stomach means good spirits and an empty one means bickering and gloom. Harry and I are both the least surprised by this and the best at handling it, because we've suffered near starvation at the hands of the Dursleys and the Martins. Hermione manages reasonably well on nights when we can't scavenge anything but berries and stale biscuits, except that her temper is perhaps a little shorter than usual and her silence more dour. Ron, on the other hand, is well-accustomed to having three delicious meals every single day of his life, courtesy of either his mother or the house-elves of Hogwarts, so hunger makes him both unreasonable and irritable. And whenever lack of food coincides with his turn to wear the Horcrux? He becomes downright unpleasant.

"So, where's next?" is his constant go-to question. He does not seem to have any ideas himself, but instead expects Harry, Hermione, and I to come up with plans while he broods and complains over the low food supply. Accordingly, Harry, Hermione, and I spend many fruitless hours trying to figure out how to find other Horcruxes, how to destroy the one we've already got, but considering we have no new information, the conversations soon become repetitive.

As Dumbledore had told Harry that Voldemort had hidden the Horcruxes in places important to him, we keep reciting in dreary tones known locations that Voldemort had lived in or visited. The orphanage where he had been born and raised; Hogwarts, where he had been educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he had worked after he had finished school; then Albania, where he had spent his years of exile. These places form the basis of our speculation.

"Yeah, let's go to Albania. Shouldn't take more than an afternoon to search an entire country," Ron says sarcastically.

"There can't be anything there. He'd already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore's certain the snake is the sixth," Hermione says. "We know the snake's not in Albania, she's usually with Vol - "

"Didn't I ask you to stop saying that?"

"Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who - happy?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, why don't you let us know if there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable, yeah, Ron?" I say sarcastically. "It's not like we're here for any other reason."

"I can't see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes," Harry presses on, having made this point several times and most likely only saying it so that Ron can't retort and make things worse. "Borgin and Burkes were experts at Dark objects, they would've recognised a Horcrux straight away."

Ron yawns pointedly. Harry looks irritated, but continues anyway, "I still reckon he might've hidden something at Hogwarts."

Hermione sighs.

"But Dumbledore would've found it, Harry!"

"Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwarts' secrets. I'm telling you, if there was one place Vol - "

"Oi!"

"YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!" Harry snaps. "If there was one place that was really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!"

"Oh, come on," Ron scoffs. "His school?"

"Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place that meant he was special: it meant everything to him, and even after he left - "

"This is You-Know-Who we're talking about, right? Not you?" Ron asks.

"Shut up, Ron," I say warningly, glancing over at Harry and seeing that he's trying very hard to contain his anger. I notice Ron tugging at the golden chain around his neck and decide to take the locket from him if he says anything else. I turn to Harry and say bracingly, "You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore for a job after he left Hogwarts."

"That's right," Harry nods.

"And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to find something, probably another founder's object, to make it into a Horcrux?"

"Yeah."

"But he didn't get the job, did he?" Hermione cuts in. "So he never got the chance to find the founder's object there and hide it in the school!"

"Okay, then," Harry says, defeated. "Forget Hogwarts."

 

***

 

Without any other leads, we travel into London and, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloakm search for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been raised. Hermione steals into a library and discovers from their records that the place had been demolished many years before. We visited its site and found a tower block of offices.

"We could try digging into the foundations?" Hermione asks halfheartedly.

"He wouldn't have hidden a Horcrux here," Harry shakes his head.

Even without any new ideas, we continue to travel through the countryside, pitching the tent in a different place each night for security. Every morning we make sure that we've removed all clues of our presence, set off to another lonely and secluded spot, travelling by Apparition to more woods, to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, gorse-covered mountain sides, and once, a sheltered and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so, we pass the Horcrux between us.

Autumn rolls over the countryside as we move through it. We're not pitching tents on mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists join those cast by the Dementors; wind and rain adds to our troubles. The fact that Hermione is getting better at identifying edible fungi does not do much to compensate for our isolation, the lack of other people's company, or our total ignorance in what's going on in the war against Voldemort.

"My mother," Ron says one night, as we sit in the tent on a riverbank in Wales, "can make good food appear out of thin air."

He prods moodily at the lumps of charred grey fish on his plate. I don't even need to check his neck to know that he's wearing the locket. I'm the one who handed it to him earlier. I fight down the impulse to snap at Ron, knowing he'll be find enough in a few hours when he takes it off.

"Your mother can't produce food out of thin air," Hermione says. "No one can. Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration - "

"Oh, speak English, can't you?" Ron says impatiently.

"It's impossible to make good food out of nothing! you can Summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quality if you've already got some - "

"Well, don't increase the quality of this, it's disgusting."

"Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I've noticed Hazel and I are always the ones who end up sorting out the food, because we're girls, I suppose!"

"No, it's because you two are  _supposed_ to be the best at magic!" Ron shoots back.

Hermione jumps up and bits of roast pike slides off her plate and onto the floor.

"You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find the ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I'll sit here and pull faces and moan, and you can see how you - "

"Shut up!" Harry says, leaping to his feet and holding up both hands. "Shut up now!"

Hermione looks outraged.

"How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook - "

"Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!"

I start listening carefully. Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside us, I hear the sound of voices. I glance over at the Sneakoscope. It hasn't moved.

"You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?" he whispers to Hermione.

"I did everything," she whispers back. "Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling, and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn't be able to hear or see us, whoever they are."

Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, along with the sound of dislodged twigs and stones, tells me that several people are clambering down the steep, wooded slope to the narrow bank where we had pitched our tent. We draw our wands, silent, waiting. The enchantments we use are sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield us from Muggles and most wizards. But if these are Death Eaters... then perhaps our defences are about to be tested by Dark magic for the first time.

The voices become louder but no more intelligible as the group of men reach the bank. By the sounds of it, the group of men are no more than twenty feet away, but with the sounds of the cascading river, it's impossible to know for sure. Hermione snatches the beaded bag and starts to rummage, before pulling out four Extendable Ears and handing one to each of us. We hastily insert the flesh-coloured strings into our ears and then feed the other ends out of the tent entrance. Within seconds, I can hear a weary male voice.

"There ought to be a few salmon out here, or d'you reckon it's too early in the season?  _Accio Salmon!_ "

There are several distinct splashes and then the slapping sound of fish against flesh. Somebody grunts appreciatively. I press the Extendable Ear deeper into my own. Over the murmur of the river I can make out more voices, but they're not speaking English or any other human language I've ever heard. It's a rough and unmelodious tone, a string of ratling, guttural noises, and there seems to be two speakers, one with a lower, slower voice than the other.

A fire dances to life on the other side of the canvas, large shadows pass between tent and flame. The delicious smell of baking canvas wafts tantalisingly in our direction. Then comes the clinking of cutlery and plates, and the first voice speaks again.

"Here, Griphook, Gornuk."

 _Goblins_ , I think. That would explain the strange language.

"Thank you," the goblins say together in English.

"So, you three have been on the run together for how long?" asks a new, mellow, pleasant voice.

"Six weeks... seven weeks... I forget," the tired man says. "Met up with Griphook the first couple of days, then joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a bit of company." There's a pause, while knives scraped plates and tin mugs are picked up and replaced. "What made you leave, Ted?"

"Knew they were coming," replies the mellow Ted, and I finally recognise the voice as belonging to Ted Tonks, who I've met in Order meetings. "Head Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I'd better run for it. Refused to register as Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew it was a matter of time, knew I'd have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she's pure-blood. And then I met Dean here - what? A few days ago, son?"

"Yeah," says a new voice, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stare at each other, silent but beside ourselves with excitement, recognising the voice of Dean Thomas, a fellow Gryffindor student.

"Muggle-born, eh?" the first man asks.

"Not sure," Dean says. "My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I've got no proof he was a wizard, though."

There's only the sound of munching for a time again. Then, Ted speaks.

"I've got to say, Dirk, I'm surprised to see you. Pleased, but surprised. Word was that you had been caught."

"I was," Dirk says. "I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it. Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you might think; I don't reckon he's quite right at the moment. Maybe Confunded. If so, I'd like to shake hands with the wizard who did it, they might've saved my life."

There's another pause, where the fire crackles and the river rushes on. Then Ted says, "And where do you two fit in? I - er - had the impression goblins were for You-Know-Who, as a whole."

"You had a false impression," says the goblin with the higher-pitched voice. "We take no sides. This is a wizard's war."

"How come you're in hiding, then?"

"I was deemed imprudent," says the goblin with the deeper voice. "Having refused what I considered an impertinent request, I could see that my personal safety was in question."

"What did they ask you to do?" Ted asks.

"Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race," replies the goblin, his voice rougher and less human as he says it. "I am not a house-elf."

"What about you, Griphook?"

"Similar reasons," the higher-pitched goblin says. "Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my race. I recognise no Wizarding master."

He adds something in Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughs.

"What's the joke?" Dean asks.

"He said," Dirk replies, "that there are some things that wizards don't recognise, either."

There's a short pause.

"I don't get it," says Dean.

"I had my small revenge before I left," Griphook says in English.

"Good man - er - goblin, should I say," Ted corrects himself quickly. "Didn't manage to lock up a Death Eater in one of those old high-security vaults, I don't suppose?"

"If I had, the sword would not have helped him break out," Griphook says, Gornuk laughs again, and even Dirk gives a dry chuckle.

"Dean and I are still missing something here," Ted says.

"So is Severus Snape, though he still does not know it," Griphook says, and the two goblins roar with malicious laughter. My heart speeds up slightly at the mention, excited at the bit of news that is sure to come.

"Didn't you hear about that, Ted?" Dirk asks. "About the kids who tried to steal Gryffindor's sword out of Snape's office at Hogwarts?"

An electric current seems to course through me, jangling every nerve as I stand completely still, as though frozen to my spot.

"Never heard a word," Ted replies. "Not in the Prophet, was it?"

"Hardly," Dirk chortles. "Griphook here told me about it, he heard it from Bill Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was Bill's younger sister."

I glance over at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who are all clutching onto their Extendable Ears like they're lifelines.

"She and a couple of friends got into Snape's office and smashed open the glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them while they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase."

"Ah, God bless 'em," Ted says. "What, did they think they'd be able to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or Snape himself?"

"Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword wasn't safe where it was," Dirk says. "Couple of days later, once he'd got the say-so from You-Know-Who, I expect, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead."

The goblins start to laugh again.

"I'm still not seeing the joke," Ted says.

"It's a fake," Griphook rasps.

"The sword of Gryffindor!"

"Oh, yes. It is a copy - an excellent copy, it is true - but it is wizard-made. The original was forged centuries ago by goblin and contains properties that only goblin-made armour possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at Gringotts."

"I see," Ted says. "And I imagine you didn't bother telling the Death Eaters this."

"I saw no reason to trouble them with the information," Griphook says smugly, and now Ted and Dean join Gornuk and dirk in laughing.

Inside the tent, I stare at the canvas, concentrating, willing somebody to ask the question that I desperately need to be answered. After one minute that feels like ten, Dean finally does, and I remember, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he had once dated Ginny, no matter how difficult the relationship had been.

"What happened to Ginny and all the others? The ones who tried to steal it?"

"Oh, they were punished, and cruelly," Griphook replies indifferently.

"They're okay, though?" Ted says quickly. "I mean, the Weasleys don't need any more of their kids injured, do they?"

"They suffered no serious injury, as far as I'm aware," Griphook says, and I can breathe a little easier.

"Lucky for them," Ted says. "With Snape's track record I think we should all be glad they're still alive."

"You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?" Dirk says. "You believe Snape killed Dumbledore"

"'Course I do," Ted says confidently. "You're not going to tell me you believe Potter had anything to do with it?"

"Hard to know what to believe these days," Dirk mutters.

"I know Harry Potter," Dean says, "and I reckon he's the real thing - the Chosen One, or whatever you want to call it."

"Yeah, there's a lot of people who would like to believe he's that, son," Dirk points out, "me included. But where is he? Ran for it, by the looks of it. You'd think if he knew anything we don't, or had anything special going for him, he'd be out there fighting, rallying resistance, instead of hiding. And, you know, the Prophet made a pretty good case against him - "

"The Prophet?" Ted scoffs. "If you're still reading that then you deserve to be lied to, Dirk. You want facts, try the Quibbler."

There's a sudden explosion of choking and retching, plus a good deal of thumping. By the sounds of it, Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last, he splutters, "The Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Lovegood's?"

"It's not so lunatic these days," Ted says. "You want to give it a look, Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet's ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they'll let him get away with it, mind, I don't know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who's against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their top priority."

"Hard to help a boy who's vanished off the face of the earth," Dirk states.

"Listen, the fact they haven't caught him yet's one hell of an achievement," Ted says. "I'd take tips from him gladly; it's what we're trying to do, stay free, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, you've got a point there," Dirk says heavily. "With the whole of the Ministry and their informer's looking for him, I'd have expected him to be caught by now. Mind, who's to say they haven't already caught and killed him without publicising it?"

"Ah, don't say that, Dirk," Ted murmurs.

There's a long pause filled with more clattering of knives and forks. When they speak again it's to discuss whether they should sleep on the bank or head up the wooded slope. Deciding the trees would give them better cover, they extinguish their fire, then climb back up the incline, their voices fading away.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all reel in the Extendable Ears.

"Ginny - the sword - " Harry says.

"I know!" Hermione says.

She lunges for her beaded bag, this time sinking her arm into it right up to her armpit.

"Here... we... are..." she says between gritted teeth, and she pulls out something that was evidently in the depths of her bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate picture frame comes into sight. Harry and I hurry to help her. As we pull the empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black free of Hermione's bag, she keeps her wand at the ready.

"If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake while it was in Dumbledore's office," she pants, as we prop the painting against the side of the tent. "Phineas Nigellus would've seen it, he hands right beside the case!"

"Unless he was asleep," Harry points out, but we all still wait with bated breath as Hermione kneels down, her wand pointed directly in the middle of the canvas, clears her throat, and says, "Er - Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?"

Nothing happens.

"Phineas Nigellus?" she says again. "Professor Black? Could we talk to you? Please?"

"'Please' always helps," says a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus slides into his portrait.

At once, Hermione cries, "Obscura!"

A black blindfold appears over Phineas Nigellus' clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain.

"What - how dare - what are you - ?"

"I'm very sorry, Professor Black," Hermione says, "but it's a necessary precaution!"

"Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I saw! You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I? What's going on?"

"Never mind where we are," Harry says, and Phineas Nigellus freezes, abandoning his attempt to take off his painted blindfold.

"Can that be the possible voice of the elusive Mr. Potter?"

"Maybe," Harry replies, and I grin, knowing that'll keep his attention. "We've got a couple of questions to ask you - about the sword of Gryffindor."

"Ah, yes," Phineas Nigellus says, moving his head this way and that to catch a glimpse of Harry. "That silly girl acted most unwisely there - "

"Shut up about my sister," Ron says roughly, and Phineas Nigellus raises his eyebrows.

"Who else is here?" Phineas Nigellus asks, turning his head from side to side still. "Your tone displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardy in the extreme! Thieving from the headmaster!"

"They weren't thieving," I say. "The sword isn't Snape's."

"How many people are there here?" Phineas Nigellus demands. "It belongs to Professor Snape's school. Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl have on it? She deserved her punishment, as did the Longbottom idiot and the Lovegood oddity!"

"Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!" Hermione says.

"Where am I?" Sir Phineas begins wrestling with the blindfold again. "Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my forebears?"

"Never you mind that! What did Snape do to Ginny, Luna, and Neville?" I ask urgently.

"Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid."

"Hagrid is not an oaf!" Hermione says shrilly.

"And Snape might've thought that was a punishment," Harry adds, "but Ginny, Neville, and Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest... they've faced plenty worse than the Forbidden Forest, big deal!"

I can't help but feel relieved. And they had had Hagrid to protect them, even if something did go horribly wrong... I was thinking of horrible, horrible things... the Cruciatus Curse, at least.

"What we really ought to know, Professor Black, is whether anyone else, um, has taken out the sword at all? Maybe it's been taken away for cleaning - or something!"

Phineas Nigellus pauses in his attempts to free himself from the blindfold and sniggers.

"Muggle-born," he says, "goblin-made armour does not require cleaning, simple girl. Goblin's silver repels mundane dirt, imbibing only that which makes it stronger."

"Don't call Hermione simple," Harry says.

"I grow weary of contradiction," says sir Phineas, "perhaps it is time for me to return to the headmaster's office?"

Still blindfolded, he begins groping the side of his frame, trying to feel his way out of the picture and back into the one at Hogwarts.

"Dumbledore!" Harry suddenly says. "Can't you bring us Dumbledore?"

"I beg your pardon?" Sir Phineas asks.

"Professor Dumbledore's portrait - couldn't you bring him along here, into yours?"

Phineas Nigellus turns to face the direction of Harry's voice.

"I can see it is not only Muggle-borns who are ignorant," he says. "The portraits of Hogwarts may commune to each other, but they cannot travel outside of the castle except to visit a portrait of themselves elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot come here with me, and from the treatment I have received here, I can assure you I will not be making a return visit!"

Sir Phineas redoubles his attempts to leave his frame.

"Sir Phineas!" I say quickly. "Could you just tell us the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean?"

Phineas Nigellus snorts impatiently.

"I believe the last time I saw the sword taken out of its case is when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring."

I whip around to look at Harry. None of us dare say anymore around Phineas Nigellus, who as at last managed to locate the exit.

"Well, goodnight to you," he says a little waspishly, and begins to move out of sight again. Only the edge of his hat brim remains in view when Harry gives a sudden shout.

"Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?"

Sir Phineas sticks his blindfolded head back in the picture.

"Professor Snape has more important things to worry about than the many eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore. Goodbye, Potter!"

And with that he vanishes completely, leaving nothing behind but a murky backdrop.

"Harry!" Hermione cries.

"I know!" Harry shouts, punching the air.

Harry and I leap to our feet, beginning to pace in opposite directions. I don't feel hungry anymore. On the contrary, I feel like I can run a mile. Hermione shoves Phineas Nigellus' portrait back into the bag, and when she fastens the clasp, she throws the bag aside and raises a shining face to Harry and I.

"The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades only imbibe that which makes them stronger!"

"And when you killed the basilisk with that sword, Harry," I say. "That sword's got basilisk venom!"

"And Dumbledore didn't give it to me because he needed it still, he wanted to use it on the locket - "

" - and he must've known they wouldn't give it to you if he just left it in his will - "

" - so he had a copy made - "

" - and put a fake in the glass case - "

" - and he left the real one - where?"

We gaze at each other as we come to that question, and I feel as though the answer is dangling invisibly in the air above us, tantalisingly close.

"Think!" Hermione whispers. "Think! Where would he have left it?"

"Not at Hogwarts," Harry says, resuming his pacing.

"Somewhere in Hogsmeade?" Hermione suggests.

"Maybe the Shrieking Shack?" Harry says. "Nobody ever goes in there?"

"But Snape knows how to get in there, wouldn't that be sort of risky?" I point out.

"Dumbledore trusted Snape," Harry reminds me.

"Not enough to tell him he swapped the swords," I retort.

"Yeah, you're right!" Harry agrees, looking cheerful at the thought that Dumbledore, for all his words, hadn't truly fully trusted Snape. "So, would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d'you think, Ron? Ron?"

I look around. For one, bewildered moment, I think he's left the tent, but then I see him lying in the shadow of a bunk, looking stony.

"Oh, remembered me, have you?"

"What?"

Ron snorts as he stares up at the underside of the upper bunk.

"You three carry on. Don't let me spoil your fun."

Perplexed, Harry looks over at Hermione and I for help, but Hermione looks about as confused as I feel.

"What's the problem?" Harry asks.

"Problem? There's no problem," Ron says, refusing to look at him. "Not according to you, anyway."

There are several plunks on the canvas overhead. It has started to rain.

"Well, you've obviously got a problem," Harry says. "So spit it out, will you?"

Ron swings his long legs off the bed and sits up. I've seen Ron looks angry, furious, resentful, bitter, everything in between. But I can't remember the last time I've seen him look so mean, so unlike himself.

"Alright, I'll spit it out. Don't expect me to skip up and down the tent because there's some other damn thing we've got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don't know."

"I don't know?" Harry repeats. "I don't know?"

The rain is falling heavier and harder; it patters on the leaf-strewn bank all around us and into the river chattering through the dark. Dread starts to take over instead of excitement. However this is going to end, it won't be good.

"It's not like I'm having the time of my life here," Ron says, "you know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just thought, you know, after running around for a few weeks, we'd have achieved something."

"Ron," Hermione says, but she speaks in such a quiet voice that Ron can pretend to not have heard her over the sound of the rain beating on the tent.

"I thought you knew what you signed up for," Harry says.

"I thought I did, too."

"So what part of it isn't living up to your expectations?" Harry says, now sounding angry. "Did you think we'd be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other night? Did you think you'd be back to Mummy by Christmas?"

"We thought you knew what you were doing!" Ron shouts, standing up. "We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!"

"Ron!" Hermione says, this time perfectly audible over the sound of the rain, but Ron ignores her.

"Well, sorry to let you down," Harry says, his voice oddly calm. "I've been straight with you from the start. I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven't noticed, we have found a Horcrux - "

"Yeah, and we're about as near getting rid of it as we are finding the rest of them - nowhere fucking near, in other words!"

"Take off the locket, Ron," Hermione says, her voice unusually high. "Please, you wouldn't be talking like this if you hadn't been wearing it all day."

"Yeah, he would," Harry says. "D'you think I haven't noticed you guys whispering behind my back? D'you think I didn't guess you were thinking this stuff?"

"Harry, we - we weren't - "

"Don't lie!" Ron hurls at her. "You said it, too, you said you were disappointed, you said you'd thought he had a bit more to go on than - "

"I didn't say it like that - Harry, I didn't!" Hermione cries.

The rain is pouring down the tent, tears pouring down Hermione's face, and the excitement I had felt before is gone like it had never existed, and suddenly all we are is four teenagers alone and scared in a tent, whose only accomplishment is that we're not dead yet.

"So, why are you still here?" Harry says.

"Search me," Ron says.

"Go home, then."

"Yeah, maybe I will!" Ron shouts, taking several steps towards Harry. "Didn't you hear what they said about my sister? But you don't give a rat's arse, do you, it's only the Forbidden Forest, Harry I've-Faced-Worse Potter doesn't care what happens to her in there - well, I do, giant spiders and mental stuff - "

"I was only saying - she was with the others, they were with Hagrid - "

"Yeah, I get it, you don't care! And what about the others, 'the Weasleys don't need another kid injured,' did you hear that?"

"Yeah, I  - "

"Not bothered what it meant, though?"

"Ron," I say, holding back a sigh, speaking for the first time since Ron had. "I - I don't think that was referring to anything we don't know about. Bill's already been badly scarred by Greyback, George losing an ear must've spread around by now, and you're supposed to be bedridden with spattergroit, I think that's all he meant - "

"Oh, you think so, do you? I guess I shouldn't worry about it, then. It's easy for you, isn't it, with your parents safely out of the way - "

"Ron, my parents were murdered!" I say, stunned. "You call that safely out of the way?"

"Yeah, and because of that, I suppose you just don't care about any of the rest of us, do you? Not about Ginny, not about George or Charlie or Fred - sure as hell not about Fred! You think you were doing some big, huge favour by breaking up with him? He's been torn up about it! But you don't care, do you, you just cleared your guilty conscience and to hell with everything else, right? Remus was right, you know, you are just some naive little girl and all you do is ruin all your relationships! Fred, Remus, and how here we are!"

Ron could have punched me in the face and it would've surprised me less, would've hurt me less than his words now. I flinch slightly from them, staring at him with wide eyes, as though I'm staring at a stranger with Ron's face.

"You said your parents were murdered - well, mine could be going the same way!"

"Then GO!" Harry roars. "Go back to them, pretend you got over your spattergroit and Mummy'll be able to feed you and - "

Ron makes a sudden movement. Harry goes to react, but before either's wand is clear of their owner's pocket, Hermione has raised her own.

" _Protego!_ " she cries, and an invisible shield expands with her, Harry, and I on one side and Ron on the other. All of us are forced back a few steps by the force of her spell, which snaps me out of my shock. Harry and Ron glare at each other from opposite sides of the barrier.

When the shield fades, nobody moves. I take a few steps towards Ron, and I hold out my hand towards him expectantly. Staring at his face right now, it feels like this is the first time I've ever truly seen him.

"Give it here," I say.

"What?" he demands.

"What, you think you're going to keep the Horcrux as a souvenir?" I say, half-laughing, though it comes out bitter, humourless. "Give me the locket and go."

He wrenches the chain from around his neck and shoves it aggressively into my outstretched hand. I close it with my other hand, bringing it closer to me.

"Go on, then," I say, gesturing towards the mouth of the tent. "Go on to Mummy and Daddy, while you've still got them."

Ron turns to Hermione.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you staying, or what?"

"I..." she looks anguished. "Yes - yes, I'm staying, Ron. We said we'd go with Harry, we said we'd help - "

"I get it. You choose him."

"Ron, no - please - come back, come back!"

Hermione hurries after Ron desperately as he storms off into the night. Harry and I stand quite still and silent, not looking at each other, as we listen to Hermione sobbing and calling Ron's name amongst the trees, as rain continues to come falling down.

After a few minutes, she returns, her sopping hair plastered to her face.

"He's g-g-gone!" Disapparated!"

She throws herself into the sofa, curls up, and starts crying.

I feel dazed. It almost feels like a dream, but the sound of the Horcrux's ticking, metal heart beating against my hand as I clutch onto it tightly, confirms that it's not. I throw the chain around my neck and tuck the locket down the front of my shirt, cold against my chest. Harry and I look at Hermione, then at each other, but then have to tear our eyes away. Harry drags the blanket off of Ron's bunk and throws them over Hermione, before climbing into his own bed and staring up at the canvas roof silently.

I sit down next to Hermione, putting my arm around her shoulder, and allow her to sob onto my shoulder, saying nothing. I listen to the sound of her crying, to the pounding of the rain, listen for so long that the two noises meld together and there seems to be nothing else in the world but misery and rain.


	18. The Barman

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Eighteen: The Barman**

 

Fred glanced at his watch for what must have been the millionth time that day and the seventh time that minute, restless as ever. Of course, he knew that it was still ten minutes until closing time, that time doesn't move faster just because he wanted it to do so. He looked around the shop. Few customers remained. Verity had gone home an hour ago. It was just he and George still working.

Surprisingly enough, running a joke shop during a war wasn't all that fun. There was always a fear of Death Eaters coming along on one of their killing sprees just for fun, as nobody who had the authority or power to stop them  _wanted_ to stop them. And there was no denying it: business was awful. He used to be unable to count the amount of customers and orders they got in a day. Now they had no more than fifteen customers coming in per day. They got some more orders, but still not all that much. Not that he could blame people for that. With the danger and fear of death all around, he knew it wasn't likely for anybody's priority to be buying Nosebleed Nougat.

Fred supposed he should be enjoying the time he had with Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. They had taken down the U-NO-POO signs ages ago, but he still knew that the shop was living on borrowed time so long as You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters were in power.

"Waiting for something?" a voice asked. He looked up from his watch to see someone on the other side of the register. It was a girl, pretty, nearly his height, with olive skin, dark brown choppy hair, and a mischievous smile on her face as she looked at him. "I've noticed you've been staring at that a lot."

"Really?" Fred says, raising his eyebrows and carefully avoiding her question. "You'd have to be staring at me quite a lot to notice that."

"Not really, you've been doing it loads," she retorted easily, playfully. "But what would you say if I had been staring at you?"

Fred grinned and said, "I would say - "

He stopped abruptly, because for a split second, her face had transformed into Hazel's and he couldn't continue this. Fred wasn't necessarily flirting with her, but he wasn't doing anything to stop her flirting with him. He knew Hazel had broken up with him specifically so he could do stuff like this, but he couldn't help it. His heart still belonged to Hazel. This felt wrong. It felt like cheating.

"Hey, you alright?" the girl asked, looking concerned, when he had stopped talking mid-sentence. "If you're not interested, then you could just say so. I can take a hint, you know."

"It's nothing personal," he said quickly, not wanting to make the girl feel upset over something that wasn't her fault. "It's just... there's a girl. And we're not technically together, but... it's complicated for reasons that would take me hours to fully explain, but I love her. Look, I'm sure you're great and anyone would be lucky to have you, but it - it's her I want."

The girl was silent for a moment, nodding slowly. Then she shrugged, smiling bracingly and saying, "It's cool, I get it. And I reckon that girl of yours, whoever she is, is lucky to have someone like you. Anyway, my friends really don't want to wait any longer, so how about you ring me up and let's pretend this never happened, yeah?"

Fred followed the girl's gaze and saw a group of girls standing by the door, huddled close together and looking both fearful and irritated as they stared pointedly at the girl.

"Right," he said, as the girl handed him Decoy Detonators and a couple of joke wands. "Send your friends my sincerest apologies."

"I'll be sure to do that," the girl smiled, and when Fred had finished ringing her up, said kindly, "Good luck with that girl. I hope things work out for you."

He was surprised at how genuine she sounded, though she hardly knew him and he turned her down.

"Thank you."

When she left with her friends, the shop was empty. He watched as George locked up, then walked over to Fred and sat on the counter.

"That girl was properly into you," George said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, she was," Fred agreed. "I felt bad turning her down."

George wasn't surprised to hear that Fred had turned her down, just nodding. Fred remembered something Hazel had told him the day she had broken up with him: "...  _what about when I've been gone for months and there's a pretty girl that's been visiting the shop lately?_ "

 _Well, there you have it, Hazel,_ Fred thought, as though Hazel could read his thoughts from wherever she was now. That's what happens.

"George," Fred said suddenly, standing up straighter, "are you in the mood to go out for a drink?"

"You have to ask?" George grinned. "Where d'you want to go? The Leaky Cauldron's close by. Or the Three Broomsticks?

"Nah," Fred shook his head. "Hog's Head."

George raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's new."

"What can I say?" Fred shrugged. "I'm looking for a change in scenery."

"Fair enough," George said, sliding off the counter and leaning against it instead, crossing his arms. "I have to admit, I'll always have a soft spot for the place. Never checked to see if we were of age whenever we ordered Firewhiskey while we were at school."

"Let's get going, then," Fred said, turned on the spot, and Disapparated.

He landed a few feet in front of the entrance to the shabby pub, staring up at it. George appeared beside him with a pop a few seconds later. When they walked in, they didn't find many other people there. There was a group of three wizards and a witch, huddled around a table in the shadows, the view of their faces obscured even more by the haze of the pipes they were smoking. There were two people in thick veils sitting at a different table, speaking some language Fred couldn't recognise. There was a wizard sitting in another shadowy corner, wearing magnificent robes of purple and looking around nervously.

"Ministry wizard," George whispered in his ear. "Probably checking for any illegal activity. We'll have to be on our best behaviour."

"Well, good thing we're nothing but a couple of regular angels, eh?" Fred replied, grinning.

Laughing, the two of them approached the bar and George ordered two bottles of Firewhiskey for them. When the barman handed them two bottles, Fred reached for his money, but George waved a hand dismissively.

"I got it," he said. "But you'll owe me for next time."

"Fair enough."

They sat at a table together with their bottles, talking in low voices about their plans to start an underground radio station, out of the Ministry's control or knowledge. Fred, George, and Lee (who had already confirmed that he was on board with the idea) would host, and they would bring along guests from the Order. To make sure that enemies couldn't access it, there would be a different password each week. The goal would be to spread around the information that the  _Prophet_ and other new sources (including every Wizarding station that was on air) were ignoring, now that You-Know-Who had control of the. It wasn't urgent quite yet, with the  _Quibbler_ starting to do so, but Fred and George knew, no matter how little they wanted to admit it, that the  _Quibbler_ wouldn't last forever while it was so out in the open, and there needed to be some other way of spreading the truth after it had stopped.

They were debating on what to call it, when they finally decided to stop discussing it for the time being, because that Ministry wizard in the corner was staring intensely at them, as though trying to listen in on what they were saying. Besides, as they drank and got progressively drunker, they were afraid of saying the wrong thing or speaking too loud, so they decided to steer clear of the topic.

"I'll - I'll be back," George stood up, stumbling a little, as Fred drained his bottle. "Little wizard's room."

Laughing, Fred nodded. When George was gone, Fred stood, walked back over to the bar, and ordered another drink. As the barman handed the bottle to him, Fred struggled to pull out the correct amount of money, before sliding it over to him. Looking up at him and wrenching open the bottle, Fred thought for what must've been the hundredth time that he looked familiar, but he couldn't place his finger on where he had seen him before.

"And what's wrong with you?" the barman asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding at him.

"What d'youu mean by th-that?" Fred demanded, slightly defensive.

"You're young, you're seemingly decent," he replies. "People like that don't drink this much at places like this unless they've got a problem."

Fred stared at the man with slightly narrowed eyes, before shrugging, taking a swig of the Firewhiskey, and saying, "'S a girl."

The barman shook his head, cleaning glasses with a rag so filthy it didn't seem to do any of the glasses any actual favours. "It's always a girl, isn't it?"

Fred just shrugged again, drinking deeply from the bottle again to avoid having to answer them.

"What's she like?" he asked.

"She's everything," Fred replied, turning the bottle in circles with his hands and smiling vaguely. "Name's Hazel. Super smart and pretty and funny and kind and talented and stubborn and fiery and - and super not my girlfriend."

"She ended it with you, I'm assuming," the barman said. Fred just nodded, drinking deeply. "Why?"

"She - er - she's worried about me," Fred said, remembering to keep it as vague as he could even in his semi-drunken state. "She got a bit overwhelmed with everything around her, you know..."

"Why? She young or something?"

"Seventeen," he shrugged. "Only t-two years younger than I am."

Fred didn't have any idea why he was sharing any of this with a barman he didn't even know, but at this point, he figured he might as well. However, he regretted doing so when the barman actually laughed.

"Seventeen?  _Seventeen?_ " he repeated incredulously. "You're thing hungover over a girl that's  _seventeen?_ "

"Yeah," Fred said testily. "What about it?"

"Look, you'll get over it," the barman said. "Maybe not today or tomorrow, but it'll happen. Give it five years, you won't remember her name."

"And - and why the hell d'you say that?" Fred demanded. "I'm bloooody in love with her - "

"No, you're not," the barman said dismissively. "She can't be anyone you're in love with or need if she's seventeen. She's just a girl that you probably got infatuated with as schoolchildren - hell, she still is in school, isn't she?"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Fred said angrily.

"Oh, and the nineteen year-old  _in love_ does?" the barman scoffed. "She's some girl that'll be nothing to you before you know it, because that's what this all is - nothing - "

Fred stood up angrily at that, opening his mouth to speak, but then suddenly George was beside him, holding him back.

"Hey, easy, mate!" he said quietly. "Relax, Fred, just relax - "

"You didn't hear what this dickhead was saying - " Fred began.

"Yeah, trust me, I did," George said over him. He lowered his voice even more and said, "What did I say about being on your best behaviour? People are watching, and not the good kind."

Fred glanced over at the probably Ministry wizard, who indeed looked like he was deciding whether or not to intervene. He also noticed everyone else in the bar was watching them now. He fell silent, relaxing against George's grip instead of struggling against it.

"Let's go, yeah?" George said. "C'mon."

Fred followed George numbly out of the bar. Apparently deciding that Fred was in no state to Apparate on his own (a decision Fred would later decide was a good one), George gripped onto his forearm and Disapparated. In his intoxication, the feeling of being constricted like that nearly made Fred throw up on the spot once they had landed inside of the joke shop, but he managed to stop himself.

George led him upstairs into the flat they shared, leading him to the sofa, on which Fred collapsed.

"What the hell were you thinking, mate?" George demanded.

"You heeard what he was saying, didn't you?" Fred replied indignantly. "Abou-about me and Hazel! I wasn't just going to let him say all that - "

"You know this is probably the exact opposite of what Hazel wanted you to do, right?" George said.

Fred was silent for a moment. Then said dully, "Probably."

George just stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head and saying, collapsing onto a chair nearby. "Right, well, one thing's for sure: no more Hog's Head indefinitely. In fact, no more bars in general. If you're getting drunk, you're doing it in private, clear?"

"Fair enough," Fred agreed. "Besides, don't want to give that dick anymore business than he  _deserves_."

George stared at him at that, before shaking his head and saying, "Merlin, Fred, you know you probably love her too much for your own good, right?"

"Probably," Fred said again.

"I should've been there to stop you sooner," George said thoughtfully. "I would've been, but before it got serious that group of wizards who were smoking kept trying to talk to me about my ear." When Fred looked over at him blankly at that, he elaborated. "Y'know, my missing ear. They wanted to know if I still had it and how much I was willing to sell it to them for. Whatever they wanted with a severed ear, I don't know, and I don't think I ever want to."

Fred was silent for a moment, thinking over these words. Then, he snorted. Snorting turned into chuckling, which turned into laughter, and soon, he was full-on howling in the otherwise silent sitting room. George stared at him in bewilderment at this sudden change in mood, but soon his twin was laughing loudly right along with him, and for a moment, nothing was wrong.

When their laughter had died, Fred turned his head to look at George and said, "Hey... we're talking so much about my love life, what about yours? How have you and Angelina been?"

George shrugged. "Good, actually. I was actually going to tell you this, but I never got the chance - she admitted to fancying me back a couple days ago - you know, I think it's because of my ear."

"The whole world hasn't changed because you lost an ear, Georgie," Fred half-laughed, though he was happy for his twin.

"No, I'm telling you, I think it is!" George insisted. "I think it made her really realise we might not always be around and I think she didn't want either of us to die without me knowing. But, anyway, with everything going on, she doesn't think now's the best time to start a relationship. Sort of sucks, but... I've waited over two years for her, you know? I can wait until the end of the war if I've got to."

Fred was silent for a moment. George was in a similar position than Fred, but he was so calm, while Fred was a complete mess. For a moment, he contemplated that George was just hiding his feelings from Fred, but looking at George, even drunk, he knew he wasn't. He knew George like the back of his hand. He knew when he was lying or hiding something. He wasn't.

Fred supposed that George had the fact that he did not have to doubt about Angelina's feelings about him. He knew Angelina would want to be with him after all the chaos from the war was over. But after the events of the wedding, Fred didn't have that. He had no idea how Hazel would react to him when they saw each other again (he had to believe they would. The mere thought of not seeing Hazel ever again was enough to drink him to near insanity), if she would want to be with him, how she even truly felt about him.

George might have to be patient, but at least he could be confident and secure in where they were. Fred didn't have that.

But then he looked over at George again, and saw concern written all over his face, and suddenly felt guilty. Forget what he was feeling, at least for now. He had to be happy for his twin, who was always there for him, even if he felt awful himself.

"Hey, mate," he said seriously. "I'm happy for you. I think it's bloody amazing. But I have two conditions."

"Yeah?" George said, looking slightly relieved, but still frowning at the last sentence.

"One: I'd b-better blooody be best man at the wedding," he began. "And two: if I ever have to walk in on you fucking, I don't care, I'm throwing the both of you onto the street."

George laughed at that, throwing his head back, another full, carefree laugh that neither had done in far too long, and Fred joined in soon.

"Deal. Just know the same applies for you and Hazel."

His grin faded slightly, and then he returned it just as easily, shrugging and stretching out on the sofa, his hands behind his head.

"I thought we agreed on that when I first told you I liked her, Georgie."

And before anyone can say or do anything else, Fred passed out, his arm dangling over the edge of the sofa and his mouth slightly open.


	19. Godric's Hollow

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Nineteen: Godric's Hollow**

 

When I wake up from a restless sleep the next day, for several seconds, I completely forget what happened the previous night and wonder why I can't hear Ron snoring below me. But then I remember what had happened and my heart sinks. Foolishly, I want to believe that it was all some nightmare, that this is a dream within a dream, and that soon I'll wake up for real and Ron will be there. But I know that this is real life, and when I leap from my bunk onto the floor and look at the bottom bunk, Ron's bunk, I see that it's deserted. Neither Harry nor Hermione, already awake, wish me good morning, both of them avoiding my gaze, and I don't say anything to either of them, as well.

 _He's gone,_ I tell myself, having to repeat it over and over so that the repetition can dull the shock, the pain, so that I might soon become numb to the horrible truth of it.  _He's gone, he's gone, he's gone and he's not coming back._

Because there is no avoiding the truth. Our protective enchantments mean that, once we vacate this spot, which we will have to do this morning, it will be impossible for Ron to find us. With this fact hanging unacknowledged in the air, we eat breakfast in silent. Hermione's eyes are puffy and red; she looks like she didn't sleep at all. When we pack our things, she dawdles, and I know that she wants to stretch out or time here on the riverbank in case Ron turns up again. Several times, she looks up eagerly, and I know that she's deluded herself into thinking that she's heard footsteps over the sound of the rain, but no redheaded figure has appeared between the trees. Every once in a while, I'm tempted into looking myself, but I always stop myself, knowing I won't find anything, that there's no use.

The muddy river beside us is rising rapidly and threatening to spill over onto the bank. We linger a good hour after we usually would've left our campsite. Finally, having repacked her beaded bag three times, Hermione seems to find no other reason to delay. She, Harry, and I grasp hands and Disapparate, reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside. The minute we arrive, Hermione lets us go and walks away, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with what I know are sobs. I give Harry a look, indicating to go put up the protective enchantments, and sit down beside Hermione, rubbing her back gently and saying nothing. Harry strides in a large circle with Hermione and I at its centre, putting up the enchantments, and I watch him distractedly, everything feeling cold and tight.

We don't discuss Ron at all. Harry and I are both determined not to mention his name again, and Hermione seems to know that there's no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at night, when she thinks we think she's sleeping, we can hear her crying in her bunk. Harry's taken to examining the Marauder's Map, and I assume he's checking to see if Ron has returned, protected by his pure-blood status, following the footsteps of those he cares about. Most nights I can't sleep, so I've taken to sitting outside of the tent, under the guise of keeping watch, though we all know after the group at the river hadn't noticed us that I don't particularly need to do so, counting the stars and trying not to think of anything else.

By day, we devote ourselves to trying to determine the possible location of Gryffindor's sword, but the more we talk about it, the quicker we run out of ideas, and the more desperate our speculations become. Harry racks his mind but can't remember any hint Dumbledore might've given him about where he would hide the sword. I attempt to keep the morale up, but Ron's words before he left ("We thought you knew what you were doing!") are always heavy in the air during these conversations.

In spite of my attempts to keep morale up, we spend most evenings in near silence, and Hermione takes to bringing out Phineas Nigellus' portrait and propping it up on a chair, as though it might fill the gaping hole left by Ron's departure. Despite his previous statement that he would never visit us again, Phineas Nigellus does not seem able to resist the temptation of seeing what Harry's up to and therefore consents to reappear, blindfolded, every few days or so. I'm more glad to see him than I let on, because he's company, albeit a snide and taunting kind that seems to particularly dislike me for reasons I don't really know. We relish any news of what's happening at Hogwarts, though Sir Phineas isn't exactly an idea informer. He venerates Snape, as he's the first Slytherin headmaster Hogwarts has had since Sir Phineas himself ran the school, and promptly leaves whenever we criticise or ask any impertinent questions about Snape.

All the same, though, he does drop certain snippets. Snape seems to be facing a constant, low level of mutiny from a group of students. Ginny has been banned from visiting Hogsmeade. Snape has reinstated Umbridge's old decree of forbidding three or more students gathering or any unofficial student societies. From all this, I gather that Ginny, and most likely Luna and Neville, are currently doing their best to start up Dumbledore's Army again. This news makes me feel oddly proud of the three of them, but it also fills me with worry and makes me miss the lot of them. As Phineas Nigellus talks about Snape's crackdown, I experience a split second of madness where I consider going to Hogwarts and joining in destabilising Snape's regime. Being properly fed and having a nice bath and even having the adults be in charge again all sound so nice in that split second, but then I've snapped out of it, realising how impossible that is. Sir Phineas tends to emphasise the impossibility of it, though he doesn't realise it, by slipping in leading questions about our whereabouts. Hermione shoves him back into the beaded bag whenever he does this, and Sir Phineas refuses to return for a few days after these unceremonious goodbyes.

The weather grows colder and colder. We don't dare remain in one ares too long, so rather than staying in the south of England, where a hard ground of frost is the worst of it, we meander up and down the countryside, braving a mountainside, where sleet pounds on the tent; a flat marsh, where the tent is flooded with chill water; and a tiny island in the middle of the Scottish loch, where snow buries half the tent in the night. We've already spotted Christmas trees twinkling from several sitting room windows, and I try not to think too hard about Christmas at Hogwarts, with the large Christmas trees that Hagrid brings in every year and the fantastic decorations the teachers add to it, the holly and mistletoe that decorates the castle.

One day, while I'm keeping watch outside on a rocky cliff side, I stop watching my breath fog up and instead stand up, walking to the edge of the cliff and looking out on the horizon. Then, I bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it over the edge. I watch it as it flies through the air, until it disappears out of sight. I pick up another rock and repeat the action. I'm not sure why I'm enjoying it so much, but it's weirdly relaxing, so I keep doing it.

I'm so focused on it that I don't even notice Harry exiting the tent and moving to stand beside me, until he says, "Having fun?"

I'm so startled that the rock I throw barely makes it a few feet before dropping out of the air at top speed. I give him a glare. "You shouldn't do that."

Harry just shrugs. "You should stay more focused. You are on watch, after all."

"Fair enough," I admit, though I don't stop throwing rocks.

"You look tired," he observes, after a pause.

"Are any of us well rested?" I retort.

"No," he replies. "But you look even worse than me or Hermione."

"That's hurtful," I say. "I've been spending a lot of time on my looks, as a matter of fact."

Both Harry and I know that this is not even remotely true. I've been spending my time reading, reading up on Horcruxes, reading up on the sword of Gryffindor, reading up on anything that might help us on our mission. It's pretty much most of what I do if I'm not on watch, and as a result, I don't sleep that much. I don't really mind the lack of sleep, though, because all I do is have nightmares, all my worst fears coming to life before my eyes. It doesn't really make for a very refreshing rest. I know that my lack of sleep is starting to show through in my looks, though. I look a little paler than usual, which contrasts even more noticeably against the dark circles around my eyes.

"Do you miss him?" Harry asks suddenly.

"Do I miss who?" I reply, still throwing rocks and now trying to see just how far I can throw them.

"You know who," he says.

"Why would I miss the most powerful dark wizard of all time?"

"Hazel," Harry says, and I give him a half-glance, before dropping my arms back to my sides, because we both know I'm just being difficult and that I know exactly who he means.

"Every day," I sigh, looking away, at the view of the houses and buildings that the cliff provides. "I miss him every day. I dream about him sometimes. They're never good dreams, but.."

Because it's true. I thought I had known what it was like to miss Fred, from being apart from him last year, but I can see now I was kidding myself, because what I felt then is nothing compared to what I feel now. I miss everything about Fred, even the stuff that used to drive me up the wall, the stuff we used to argue about. I miss him so much it hurts, so much it feels like it's going to suffocate me sometimes. I miss and worry about others, too, George, Ginny, Remus (even if every time I think of him, I'm reminded of his last words to me and feel a sharp pain in my chest), but Fred... Fred seems to be on another level for me, maybe because of how we left off at the wedding. Either way, I'm surprised I'm managing at all.

"Why?" I say, changing the subject and resuming in throwing rocks, trying to distract myself. "Thinking about Ginny?"

"What do you think?" Harry says meaningfully, and I can hear the barely restrained longing in his voice.

"Would you look at that," I say, throwing another rock. "These Weasleys, they've messed us up real nicely."

Harry and I look at each other at that, and though neither of us say it (both of us too stubborn to bring it up), but we're thinking about Ron, and about Hermione, still in the tent by herself, about the heartbreak that's come over her. There's another silence, heavy in the air, where I decide to stop throwing rocks once and for all, and opt to play with the loose ends of my old, still slightly over-sized sweater.

"Hazel," Harry says again, finally breaking the silence, saying my name more carefully than before.

"What?" I ask, giving him a sideways glance, slightly suspicious at his tone.

"I've been thinking..." he begins.

"That's never good," I say jokingly. Then, I add, "Go on, what have you been thinking about?"

"I've been thinking that... that we should go to Godric's Hollow," he says finally, trying to sound firm.

"Godric's Hollow," I repeat.

"Yes."

I'm silent for a moment, thinking this over. I'm not very surprised that Harry suggested this. I've always known he wanted to visit his parents' graves and I can't blame him for it. I'm not sure if visiting my parents' graves was something I could classify as a positive experience overall, but I am sure that I'm glad I did it. Besides, there is a connection between that place and Harry. It's the place his parents were killed, where Voldemort almost killed him. It's natural for Harry to want to go.

Of course, that's exactly what makes it so dangerous to go. Not only is the place connected to Harry, but it's connected to Voldemort himself, as the last place he went before his exile, the place where he was defeated by the same person he'd spend the next sixteen years trying to kill. And surely Voldemort will suspect that Harry would want to go back to see his parents' graves, to see their old house, and must have at least a couple of Death Eaters on close watch.

Harry seems to take my silence as a no, because he adds quickly, "Look, I know what you're thinking but... Godric's Hollow... there's something - special about that place. It's where my parents died, it's where I almost died, I've got a connection with that place. And so does You-Know-Who, he almost died there, too. It must be important, right? And I - well, you know I want to visit their graves. You understand how important it is, right?"

I look over at him, at the look on his face, and let out a sigh.

"Of course I do, Harry, but it's dangerous," I say, turning away and beginning to pace, needing to move around. "You-Know-Who is bound to be as aware of that connection as you are, and I'll be damned if he doesn't have some Death Eaters patrolling the place in case you turn up."

But then I think about the sword of Gryffindor, and I can't act as though I haven't been thinking of it myself.

"I'll admit it, though, it's crossed my mind, too, and the more I think about it, the more I think we have to go," I add. "I mean, I've been thinking for ages about where we can find the sword of Gryffindor, and then one day I realised - what better place to hide it than the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor himself?"

"Exactly - wait, what?" Harry says abruptly. "Godric Gryffindor was born there, too?"

I stop pacing at that, whipping around to look at Harry in disbelief. When he just stares at me cluelessly, I say, "You're joking, right?"

"Should I be?"

"You're really telling me you didn't know  _Godric_ Gryffindor was born in  _Godric's_ Hollow?" I demand. "What, did you think it was a coincidence they shared the same name?"

"You know I was always rubbish at History of Magic!" he protests.

"So was I! I bloody failed my O.W.L., didn't I?" I retort. "You don't need an O in History of Magic, you need a bit of common sense!"

He says nothing to this. I look skywards, squinting slightly against the brightness of the sky, and shake my head.

"The Chosen One. The Saviour of the Wizarding World. The Boy Who Lived. We're all doomed."

He lets out a laugh at that. I look back down at the sound, and join in myself.

"Probably, yeah," he replies. "Anyway, there's a chance this sword might be at Godric's Hollow. That's all the more reason to go, isn't it?"

I'm quiet for a moment, before admitting, "Look, you've got me convinced, but you still have Hermione to worry about, and I have a feeling she'll be a little harder to convince."

"That's true," he agrees, though he looks a little relieved to know that I'm on board with the idea. Then, after a moment, says, "You should go inside. Get some rest."

"You're not trying to get me to talk to Hermione and convince her for you, are you?" I say, crossing my arms and raising my eyebrows, though a hint of a smile is on my face. "Because, since you suggested it first, it is your idea."

"Can you blame me for trying?" is all he says, smiling. "Still, you should try and get some sleep. Go on, I'll take watch."

I hesitate a moment longer, before nodding and smiling, giving him a little, "Thank you," before heading back inside the tent and collapsing onto my bunk. All the same, I don't get much sleep at all, only about an hour of fitful rest, before I give up completely and just stare up at the bottom of the top bunk.

 

***

 

Dinner that night is an unusually nice meal. Hermione had been to the supermarket under the Invisibility Cloak (discreetly dropping the money into an open till as she leaves, as she's eager to insist), and so the mood is slightly lifted now that we've all had Spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears instead of the usual edible plants, berries, and fish we have to scavenge. When Harry suggests we take a few hours' break from the Horcrux, Hermione complies and throws it off from around her neck, placing it on the nearest bunk, but I know that Harry's using the lifted mood to ask Hermione about going to Godric's Hollow.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" she says, curled up in one of the sagging armchairs and reading  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ with  _Spellman's Syllabary_ open on the arm of the chair, indicating that she's translating something.

Harry clears his throat. "Hermione, I've been thinking, and - "

"Harry, could you help me with something?"

Apparently, she wasn't listening to him. She leans forward and holds out the copy of  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

"Look at that symbol," she says, pointing to a spot on the page. I lean forward myself and see, as Hermione has shown me before, a picture of what looks to be a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

"I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione."

"I know that; but it's not a rune and it's not in the syllabary and Hazel said she's never seen it, either. All along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don't think it is! It's been inked in, look, somebody's drawn it there, it isn't really part of the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?"

"No... no, wait a moment," Harry says, looking closer, and I straighten up slightly, looking at him in interest. "Isn't it the same symbol Luna's dad was wearing around his neck?"

"Well, that's what we thought, too!"

"Then it's Grindelwald's mark."

We both stare at him.

"What?"

"Krum told me..." Harry begins, then launches into a recount of the story Krum told Harry at the wedding, about how Grindelwald was a dark wizard that Dumbledore eventually defeated, that before he was defeated he killed so many wizards, including Krum's grandfather, that he would've tried to fight Xenophilius Lovegood for wearing it if Harry hadn't talked him out of it.

After Harry's done, Hermione looks about as astonished as I feel.

"Grindelwald's mark?" she looks between the weird symbol and Harry. "I've never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. There's not mention of it in everything I've read about him."

"Well, like I say, Krum reckons the symbol was carved in a wall at Durmstrang, and Grindelwald put it there."

"That's very odd," she says, leaning back into the old armchair and frowning. "If it's a symbol of Dark magic, what's it doing in a children's book?"

"Yeah, it's weird," Harry agrees. "And you'd think Scrimgeour would've recognised it. He was Minister and an Auror, he ought to have been an expert on Dark stuff."

"I know... perhaps he thought it was just an eye, just like I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the titles."

She does not speak, but instead continues to pore over the mark. Harry is silent, probably waiting a good amount of time, before trying again.

"Hermione."

"Hmm?"

"I've been thinking. I - I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

She looks up at him, but her eyes are unfocused as she says, "Yes. Yes, I've been wondering that, too. I really think we'll have to."

Harry blinks.

"Did you hear me right?"

"Of course I did," Hermione says, as I choke back a laugh. "You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree. And I suppose you've talked to Hazel about this and she agrees, since she's not saying anything. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it can be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."

"What are you - you mean the sword?" he says.

"Well, of course the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must've known you would want to go back there, and, I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace."

"Yeah," Harry glances at me in a would-be subtle way. "I knew that."

"Well, as the village is named after him I'd be surprised if you didn't make the connection," Hermione says, looking at me suspiciously as I turn my laugh into a cough. She sounds so much more like her normal self than she has recently. I half expect her to bicker with Ron about something, announce irritably that she's off to the library, march off without a word, and then have Ron complain and continue playing wizards' chess with me or Harry. "There's a bit about the village in  _A History of Magic,_ wait..."

She opens the beaded bag and rummages inside of it for a while, during which I decide that the beaded bag has become the equivalent of the Hogwarts' library. She extracts her copy of our old school textbook,  _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot, which she flicks through until she finds the correct page.

"'Upon the signature of the International Statue of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages in Tinsworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that had dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.'"

I'm starting to remember why I had trouble staying awake in that class.

"Your parents aren't mentioned in this," Hermione says, closing the book, "because Professor Bagshot doesn't cover anything after the end of the nineteenth century. But you see? Godric's Hollow, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore expected you to make the connection?"

"Oh, yeah..." Harry says, looking as though he had not thought about what Dumbledore thought on the subject at all. Then, he says, "Remember what Muriel said?"

"Who?"

"You know," he hesitates, and I, knowing who he's talking about, realise that he doesn't want to mention Ron's name. "Ginny's great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles and talked about Hazel's knees."

"Oh," Hermione says, and it's a sticky moment, because Harry's attempt at avoiding using Ron's name only makes his absence more pronounced.

"She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric's Hollow," Harry presses on.

"Bathilda Bagshot," Hermione murmurs, running her index finger over Bathilda's embossed name on the cover of the textbook. "Well, I suppose - "

Hermione lets out a gasp so dramatic that my stomach drops. My hand jumps to my wand and I look at the entrance of the tent, already halfway on my feet again, but there's nothing there.

"What?" I demand, halfway off the ground, feeling half relieved and half furious. Harry, who had also grabbed for his wand turned toward the entrance, looks about as indignant as I feel. "What the hell was that for? I thought you'd seen a Death Eater about to come in at the very  _least_ \- "

"What if Bathilda's got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?"

I consider this possibility. From what Harry tells me from the conversation he had had at the wedding about Bathilda Bagshot, she's an extremely old woman, and her mind has apparently gone off a bit in her old age. Surely knowing this, would Dumbledore trust her with something as important as the real sword of Gryffindor? He hadn't even trusted Snape to tell him he was switching the sword with a fake, and he had sworn up and down that Snape was perfectly trust-worthy. If he did trust Bathilda, he'd certainly be leaving a lot to chance, which didn't seem all that likely. Sure, Dumbledore had been whimsical, eccentric, but would he really take such a risk with something so important if he wasn't certain it would end well? Before I can say anything about that, though, Harry has spoken up, clearly not wanting to say anything against the idea in case it makes Hermione change her mind about going.

"Yeah, he might have done? So, are we going to Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes, but we'll have to think it through carefully," she says, while I roll my eyes at him. She's sitting up now, and I can tell that the prospect of finally having some sort of plan again, of being able to feel like something's getting accomplished, lifts her spirits the way it does mine. "We'll need to practice Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak together for a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible, too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion, too? In that case, we'll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, you two, the thicker our disguises, the better..."

I let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever she pauses, giving my opinion whenever she asks for it. For the first time since finding out that the sword in Gringotts is a fake, I actually feel excited.

Harry seems ready to set out for Godric's Hollow the next day, but Hermione and I have other ideas, knowing full well that Voldemort is expecting for Harry to return to Godric's Hollow and has prepared for it accordingly. The both of us are determined to set off once we've ensured we have the best disguises possible. I set out into the nearby small town to find hairs for the Polyjuice Potion.

"Good news, you two, we're in a band!" I say brightly two hours later, returning with three vials; one with a few strands of black, sleek hair, belonging to the guitarist of the band, a girl who did not wear a single article of clothing that wasn't ripped; one with a few strands of dark brown, curly hair, the lead singer, a guy with a child-like smile that had tried to flirt with me for a while, and though he was nice and funny and fairly attractive, he had one fatal flaw: he is not Fred Weasley; and another with short strands of both blue and light brown hair, belonging to the eccentric drummer who always pretended to throw her drumsticks at people and though everything was funny. "Hermione - drummer or guitarist?"

She hesitates for a moment, before saying, "Guitarist."

I toss her the vial of the black hair. Then I turn to Harry, toss the curly hair, and say, "You're lead singer - how fitting. Which leaves me," I hold up the remaining vial, "the drummer."

Overall, it's a full week after Harry suggests the idea of going to Godric's Hollow, in which we practice Apparating and Disapparating in the Invisibility Cloak, until we all agree to make the journey.

We're to Apparate to the village under the cover of darkness, so it's late afternoon when we finally swallow the Polyjuice Potion, transforming into the members of the band, all of whom are either in their late teens or early twenties. Harry turns into the lead singer, slightly taller, with his curly dark hair, the child-like smile, and crinkles by his eyes. Hermione turns into the guitarist, with her sleek black hair, monolid eyes, and multicoloured tattoos along her arms. I turn into the drummer, with the blue and light blue hair reaching my shoulders, with eyes like sapphires and calloused hands. The beaded bag containing all of our possessions (except for the Horcrux, which Harry wears on his neck, and my Cross of Elements, which I wear on my finger) is tucked inside the pocket of Hermione's coat. Harry lowers the Invisibility Cloak over us, then we turn into the suffocating darkness once more.

When I open my eyes, I see we're standing hand in hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night's first stars are already glimmering feebly. Cottages stand on the either end of a narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead, a glow of golden streetlamps indicate the centre of the village.

"All this snow!" Hermione whispers beneath the cloak. "Why didn't we think of snow? After all our precautions, we'll leave prints! We'll just have to get rid of them - you two go in front, I'll do it - "

"Let's take off the cloak," Harry says, and when we both look over at him, he says, "Come on, we don't look like ourselves and nobody's around."

He stows the Cloak in his jacket and we make our way forward undisturbed, the icy air stinging our faces as we pass more cottages. As I look, all I can think that any of these could be the one Harry's parents lived in, or the one Bathilda Bagshot lives in now. I wonder if Harry feels the way I did when I visited where my own parents lived, like he should be feeling some sort of connection to the place, and if he's succeeding at it or not. The little lane we're walking along curves to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, is revealed to us.

Strung all around with coloured lights, there is what looks to be a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There are several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained glass windows are glowing jewel-bright across the square. The snow here has been impacted. It's hard and slippery where people had stepped on it all day. We hear a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opens and closes, then we hear a carol start up from inside the church.

"Wait, I think it's Christmas Eve!" Hermione whispers.

"Is it?" Harry says, surprised.

"Yeah, I think so, too," I say, frowning, my eyes on the church. "They... your parents will be in there, Harry, won't they? There's a graveyard just beyond it, I can see it."

I look over at Harry and see a look on his face, something like fear, like he's not sure whether he really wants to see it after all, now that he's so close. Having experienced something so similar myself, I take the lead. Standing in the middle, I take Harry and Hermione's hands again and lead the way, pulling them along. Halfway across the square, though, Hermione stops dead, making Harry and I stop, too.

"Harry, look!"

She's pointing at the war memorial. As we passed, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there's a statue of three people: a man, with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in the woman's arms. Snow lay on their heads, like fluffy white caps. Harry draws closer, gazing up at the faces of his parents. I stare at the Harry in front of me, and then at the baby carved in stone, at the peaceful-looking boy without a scar on his forehead...

"C'mon," Harry finally says, when it seems he's looked his fill, and we turn again toward the church. As we cross the road, I glance back one more time at the statue, only to see that it's turned back into a war memorial. The singing grows louder the closer we get to the church. It makes my throat constrict, as it reminds me so forcefully of Hogwarts. It reminds me of Peeves, bellowing rude versions of Christmas carols from inside of suits of armour, of the Great Hall's twelve Christmas trees, of Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a cracker, of Ron in a hand-knitted Christmas sweater, happy and very present.

There's a kissing gate at the entrance of the graveyard. Hermione pushes it open as quietly as possible and we edge through it. On either side of the slippery path to the church's doors, the snow lies deep and untouched. We move through the snow, carving deep trenches behind us as we move around the building, keeping to the shadows beneath the brilliant windows.

Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protrude from the blanket of pale snow that's flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. I keep my hand wrapped tightly around my wand in the pocket of my jacket as we move towards the nearest grave.

"Look at this, it's an Abbott, could be some long-lost relation of Hannah's!"

"Keep your voice down," I remind Harry.

We wade deeper and deeper into the graveyard, gouging dark tracks in the snow behind us, stopping to peer at the words engraved on old headstones, every now and then squinting in the surrounding darkness to make absolutely certain that we're quite alone. I glance at a tombstone, then when its writing registers in my mind, stop dead, staring at it.

Upon a dark, lichen-spotted granite headstone, there are the words 'Kendra Dumbledore' and the dates of her birth and death, along with 'Her Daughter Ariana'. There's also a quotation, reading: ' _Where treasure is, there will your heart be also._ '

_Dumbledore._

"Hey - look at this," I say, just loud enough to be heard.

Harry and Hermione, two rows of tombstones away from me, wade over to me.

"Is it - ?"

"No," I reply, shooting Harry an apologetic look, "but look at this."

Harry and Hermione both stare at the grave, but it's Harry's face I'm watching carefully. Harry had always been close to Dumbledore, but judging from the look on his face now, Dumbledore had never really mentioned his family at all, let alone the fact that they had lived in Godric's Hollow and were buried in the same place as Harry's parents. That, it seems, had maybe been a minor detail to Dumbledore, irrelevant to the task that he was giving Harry...

Hermione's look at Harry, too, and seems to be coming to the same conclusion as me.

"Are you sure he never mentioned - ?" she begins.

"No," Harry says curtly, then. "Let's keep looking."

With that, he turns away, and I feel rather regretful for showing him the headstone in the first place. We continue searching for their graves, which only makes me think about how easily Remus had led me to my parents' graves. Like it was a journey he had made many times.

"Here!" Hermione cries a few moments later from out of the darkness. My head snaps in her direction, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Harry doing the same, but then Hermione's saying, "Oh, no, sorry! I thought it said Potter."

She's rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it with a little frown on her face.

"Wait, actually, come here for a moment."

Harry and I trudge our way through the snow to her, Harry looking a little reluctant.

"What?"

"Look at this!"

The grave is extremely old, weathered so that I can't even make out the name. Hermione, however, points at the symbol beneath it.

"Harry, Hazel, that's the mark from the book!"

I peer at the place she's indicating. It's so worn out that it's hard to make our anything that's engraved on the old headstone. I squint a little, and I think I do see the triangular mark etched in Hermione's copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, but whether that's because it's actually there or my eyes are simply tricking me, I can't really tell.

"It does... kind of look like it," I admit, my head tilted slightly as I gaze at it. Hermione lights her wand and points it at the name on the headstone.

"It says Ig-Ignotus, I think..."

"I'm going to keep looking for my parents, alright?" is all Harry says, a slight edge to his voice, and he sets off again.

I stare at the grave in interest for a time, before walking away again, studying headstones as I pass them. Every now and then I see surnames of people I know at Hogwarts. Sometimes there are several generations of the same Wizarding family, all represented in one graveyard. Sometimes I can tell from the dates if the family has either died out, or if the living members of the family have just moved away from Godric's Hollow.

The darkness suddenly becomes much deeper. I look around worriedly, my mind immediately jumping to Dementors, but then my posture relaxes slightly when I realise that the carols have finished, that the chatter and flurry of the churchgoers are fading away as they make their way back to the square. Somebody from the inside of the church has simply turned off the lights. Letting out a deep breath, I keep searching.

And then, all of a sudden, there it is, only two rows behind the headstone of Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore. It's made of white marble, like Albus Dumbledore's tomb, making it easier to read than a lot of the other tombs in the graveyard, almost like it shines in the dark. I don't even have to kneel or come very close to it to be able to make out the words, which I think is good. Something about this feels very private, very forbidden, like I'm intruding somewhere I don't belong. With such a heaviness in my heart that it takes me a little by surprise, I read the words engraved on the stone:

 

_JAMES POTTER                 LILY POTTER_

_BORN 27 MARCH 1960    BORN 30 JANUARY 1960_

_DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981  DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981_

_The last enemy that shall be defeated is death._

 

It takes me a moment to find my voice; then, I say, "Harry... it's - they're here. They're right here."

The tension in the air that suddenly increases tenfold tells me they know who I mean. It doesn't truly take Harry and Hermione that long to get here, probably only a couple of seconds, but something about it makes it feel like it takes them hours before they're finally standing beside me, looking down at the grave as I am. There's a silence, as they read over the words on the grave.

"'The last enemy that shall be defeated is death,'" Harry reads aloud. Then he says, sounding panicked, "Isn't that a Death Eater idea? Why's that there?"

"It doesn't mean defeating death in the way Death Eaters mean it, Harry," Hermione says gently. "It means... you know... living beyond death. Life after death."

But all I can think as I look at their graves is that they are not living. They're as dead as they've always been, dead and buried beneath the ground, beneath all the snow, unknowing and indifferent to the three teenagers standing at their grave, one of them their son.

I glance over at Harry and see tears falling down his face, thick and fast, and knowing exactly how he feels, take his hand in mine, squeezing it. He doesn't look at me, but he returns the pressure, taking deep breaths, clearly trying to steady himself, so I say nothing. Hermione raises her wand, moving it in a circle in the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossoms before us. Harry catches it and lays it on his parents' grave.

When he stands back up, Harry puts an arm around my shoulders, then Hermione's. We each put an arm around him, too, and we turn in silence, walking through the snow, past Dumbledore's mother and sister, back towards the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.


	20. Bathilda Bagshot

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty: Bathilda Bagshot**

 

"Wait, stop."

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

We've only just reached the grave of the unknown Abbott.

"There's someone here. Someone watching us. I can tell. There, by the bushes."

We stand quite still, holding onto each other, gazing at the dense black boundary of the graveyard. I can't see anything.

"Are you sure?" I whisper.

"I saw something move. I could've sworn I did..."

She breaks away from Harry to free her wand arm.

"We look like Muggles," Harry points out.

"Muggles who've just laid flowers on your parents' grave? I'm sure there's someone over there!"

I think back to the passage of A History of Magic that Hermione had read. Godric's Hollow is supposed to be haunted... but before I can speculate too much about if a ghost is spying on us, the dislodged snow in the bushes Hermione had pointed out moves, and I cancel out that idea. Ghosts can't move snow.

"It can't be a Death Eater, can it?" I whisper, but my hand goes to the pocket of my jacket, wrapping it around my wand regardless. "We weren't paying attention for so long... surely we'd be dead or captured or  _something_ by now?" A heavy silence follows my words.

"It's a cat," Harry finally says, though he doesn't sound completely convinced of it, "or a bird. Hazel's right, if it was a Death Eater, we'd know by now. But let's get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back on."

There isn't much of a better option, so that's what we do, glancing back repeatedly as we make our way out of the graveyard. All in all, I'm glad to reach the gate and the slippery pavement. We pull the Cloak back over ourselves. The pub sounds fuller than it was before. Many of the voices inside it are singing the carol we had heard coming from the church.

"Let's go this way," Hermione murmurs, and pulls us down the dark street leading out of the village in the opposite direction from which we entered. I can make out the place where the cottages end and the lane turns into open country again. We walk as quietly as we dare under the Cloak, past windows with sparkling multicoloured lights, the outlines of Christmas trees dark through the windows.

"How are we going to find Bathilda's house?" Hermione says, shivering a little and glancing over her shoulder repeatedly. "What do you think, Harry? Harry?"

She tugs at his arm, but Harry's not paying attention. I follow his gaze to see that he's staring at the dark mass that stands at the very end of this row of houses. Next moment, he speeds up, dragging Hermione and I along with him, so that I slip a little on the ice.

"Harry - "

"Look... look at it..."

Now that we're closer, I can make it out better. Clearly, the Fidelius Charm died right along with James and Lily Potter. The hedge has grown wild, sixteen long years having passed since anyone had taken care of it, rubble laying in the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage, I notice, is still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top part of the house has been blown apart. That must've been where Voldemort's Killing Curse backfired... Harry, Hermione, and I stand at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must've once been a cosy cottage, just like the ones that flank it.

"I wonder why no one's ever rebuilt it?" Hermione whispers.

"Maybe you can't rebuild it," Harry suggests. "Maybe it's like injuries from Dark magic where you can't repair the damage?"

"Maybe no one ever wanted to rebuild it," I say in hushed tones. "Maybe they saw what had happened here was so destructive they decided not to touch it."

Harry slips a hand from the Cloak and grasps the snowy, rusted gate, his hand looking eerie as it does not appear to be attached to a visible body.

"You're not going to go inside?" Hermione says. "It looks unsafe, it might - oh, Harry, look!"

His touch on the gate seems to have done it. A sign has risen from the ground in front of us, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower. In golden letters upon the wood, it says:

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains to be the only wizard to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family._

And all around those neatly written words, scribbles have been added by other wizards who have come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived came to have that title. Some merely sign their name in Everlasting Ink, others carve their initials into the wood, and some others leave messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years' worth of magical graffiti, all say similar things.

_Good luck, Harry, wherever you are._

_If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!_

_Long live Harry Potter._

"They shouldn't have written on the sign!" Hermione says indignantly, but I'm smiling as I look at the messages people have left.

Harry beams at us.

"I think it's brilliant," he says. "I'm glad they did it..."

He breaks off. A heavily muffled figure is hobbling up the lane towards us, silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant squares. The figure is moving slowly, perhaps frightened of slipping on the lane. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling gate all give me the impression that this person is, so as I watch her walk, I get a weird desire to help her cross, though I'd probably be the reason she falls over. We watch in silence as she draws nearer. I'm waiting to see if she'll turn and enter any of the cottages, but something tells me that it won't happen. At last she comes to a halt a few yards from us and simply stands there, in the middle of the lane, facing us.

It's clear there's no chance that this woman is a Muggle. She's standing there gazing at the house that ought to have been completely invisible to her if she was a Muggle. Regardless, witch or not, it's rather strange to come out here on a cold, dark Christmas Even just to look at the old ruin. Her presence makes me particularly uneasy, though. Foolishly, I look over my shoulder once, as though hoping for another person that I just hadn't noticed before to be there, explaining why this woman is looking so determinedly in our direction, though I know nobody is there. I know that logically, by all the rules of normal magic, this woman should not be able to see us, but something about her gives me the strangest feeling that she knows that we're here, that she knows who we are and what we're doing here. And just as I come to this conclusion, she raises a gloved hand and beckons.

Instinctively, we move closer together under the Cloak.

"How does she know?" Hermione says, so quietly I can barely hear her.

Harry just shakes his head. The woman beckons again, more vigorously this time, and I get the impression she's not one to take no for an answer. Still, I can think of a million good reasons to refuse to obey her order, but with every second we spend facing each other on this abandoned street, I can't help but wonder...

Could it be that she had waited here all these months? That Dumbledore had told her to wait, that we - most likely Harry - would come here in the end? I'm almost positive that it's this woman that Hermione had seen spying on us, and that she had followed us all the way to this spot (I get a short, strange desire to tell her that following people, especially in such circumstances, is  _wrong_ , but then stamp that out of my mind just as quickly). Even her apparent ability to sense us is so Dumbledore-ish that I can't help but feel my suspicion grow with each second.

"Are you Bathilda?" Harry asks her suddenly, and I jump so hard I have to clutch onto Harry's arm to keep from slipping. Hermione jumps and gasps herself, which makes me feel a little better about it.

The muffled figure nods and beckons again.

Beneath the Cloak, Harry, Hermione, and I all look at each other. I still have an anxious feeling in my stomach, telling me that something about this is definitely not right, but I also have a feeling that this night won't end until we follow Bathilda wherever she wants to lead us. I give a nod. After a moment, Hermione gives one herself, tiny and nervous.

We step towards the woman, and at once, she turns and hobbles off back the way she had come. Leading us past several houses, she turns in at a gate. We follow her down the front path through a garden that's nearly as overgrown as the one we have just left. She fumbles with a key at the front door, then opens the door and steps aside to let us pass.

She smells bad, but it also might just be her house. Or both. I wrinkle my nose as we sidle past her and pull off the Cloak once more. Now that we're beside her, I realise how tiny the woman actually is. Bowed down with age, her head reaches just below my shoulder, and I'm pretty short myself, so that's saying something. She closes the door behind us, the door blue and mottled against the peeling paint, then turns to gaze up at Harry. Her eyes are thick with cataracts and sunken into the folds of transparent skin, and her whole face is dotted with broken veins and liver spots. I have to wonder if she can even make him out at all; even if she could, all she would see is the lead singer of the band whose identity we stole. Still, there's something about her that tells me she knows who we are under the Polyjuice Potion. All in all, I'm glad her attention is not on me.

The scent of old age, dust, unwashed clothes, and stale food intensifies as she unwinds a moth-eaten black shawl, revealing a scant of white hair through which the scalp shows through very clearly.

"Bathilda?" Harry repeats.

She nods again. Then she pushes past Hermione and I as if we're not there, vanishing into what appears to be a sitting room.

"Harry, Hazel, I'm not sure about this," Hermione whispers.

"Look at the size of her, I'm sure we could overpower her if we had to," Harry says. "I did hear she wasn't all there. Muriel said she was 'gaga.'"

There's an odd sort of noise from the next room. Somewhere between a rasp, a hiss, and a snarl, and it sounds like it's coming from Bathilda. Hermione jumps and clutches Harry's arm. I look around, stunned, trying to make sense of that, but Harry looks strangely calm.

"It's okay," he says reassuringly, and leads the way into the room. I'm becoming less and less convinced of that fact, but I follow him anyway.

Bathilda is tottering around the place lighting candles, but it's still very dark, and, from the looks of it, very dirty. Thick dust crunches beneath our feet, and my nose detects, under the dank and mildewed smell, something much worse, like rotting meat. I wonder how long it's been since someone has come inside her house to see how she's doing. She seems to have forgotten she could do magic, too, lighting the candles clumsily by hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of catching on fire.

"Here, let me do that," Harry says, stepping forward and taking the matches from her. She stands watching him as he finishes lighting the candle stubs that stand on saucers around the room, perched precariously on stacks of books and crammed onto tables also cluttered with cracked and mouldy cups. While Harry lights the last candle and removes the dust from a nearby photograph, Hermione gets started on lighting a fire in the fireplace.

When Harry stares and stares at the photograph, completely still, I frown slightly and step forward, peering at the picture over his shoulder. It's a photo of a young man, golden-haired and merry-faced, smiling lazily up at us from the frame.

"Mrs - Miss - Miss Bagshot?" Harry says, and his voice shakes. "Who is this?"

Bathilda says nothing, standing in the middle of the room and watching Hermione light the fire.

"Miss Bagshot?" he says again, and he advances with the picture in his hands as the flame bursts to life in the fireplace. Bathilda looks up now. Harry pushes the picture towards her and says, "Who is this person?"

She peers at the picture solemnly, then at Harry.

"Harry?" I whisper. "I don't compute."

"Do you know who this is?" he repeats, in a much slower, louder voice than he would usually use. "This man? Do you know him? What's he called?"

Bathilda merely looks vague.

"Who is this man?" Harry says loudly.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione asks.

"This picture. Hazel, Hermione, it's the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!" he adds to Bathilda. "Who is this?"

But, yet again, even as excitement mounts slowly inside of me, she only stares at him.

"Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. - Miss - Bagshot?" Hermione asks, raising her own voice. "Is there something you wanted to tell us?"

Giving no sign that she heard Hermione, Bathilda shuffles a few steps towards Harry. With a little jerk of her head, she looks back into the hall.

"You want us to leave?" Harry says.

She repeats the gesture, pointing first at him, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

"Oh, right... Hazel, Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her," Harry says, quite unnecessarily.

"Alright," I say, "let's go."

But when Hermione and I move, Bathilda shakes her head with surprising vigour, pointing again at Harry, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

"She wants me to go with her, alone," Harry states.

"Why?" Hermione asks, and her voice rings out sharp and clear in the small, candlelit room, so that Bathilda shakes her head a little at the noise.

"Maybe Dumbledore wants her to give the sword to me, and only to me?"

"Do you really think she knows who you are?" Hermione says.

"Yes," Harry says confidently, staring down at Bathilda's milky eyes, "I think she does."

"I'm still not sure about this - " I begin, growing increasingly uncertain of the situation, of the woman standing in front of us, and not wanting at all to split up.

"Well, she doesn't want the lot of us to go up, so it's either me or it's nothing," Harry argues. I hesitate, biting down on my lip. Then - 

"Oh, alright, but be quick, Harry."

"Lead the way," Harry tells Bathilda.

That she seems to understand, because she shuffles around him towards the door. Harry glances back to send us a reassuring smile, but Hermione's already turned back towards the bookcase, hugging herself, and I barely catch it myself, looking around the room nervously. Once they're both gone, Hermione and I look at each other.

"Is it just me, or does it feel like this can't possibly end well?"

Hermione says nothing, but I know she's as worried as I am.

I pace the room, playing with my hands nervously, trying to listen for something from upstairs, footsteps, voices, but I hear nothing. If they are speaking, they're doing it quietly. Which I'm thinking doesn't make sense, because it seems like Bathilda has trouble hearing, so surely Harry would be speaking up so she could hear him, just as he had done down here... surely his voice should be carrying, even if only faintly...

Before I can make much of anything about this, Hermione says, "I've found the book. Rita Skeeter's book about Dumbledore's life. I think Rita sent a free copy to her, since she used some of her memories for the book. She's left a note."

I go to stand beside Hermione, who's standing before a table, which indeed holds a pristine copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_. On top of it is a note, written in spiky, acid green ink that screams Rita Skeeter, reading:

_Dear Batty,_

_Thanks for your help. Here's a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it._

_Rita_

 

 

"That's amazing," I whisper. When Hermione looks at me, lost, I elaborate. "Even in the middle of a war, Rita Skeeter never ceases to disgust me."

"Should we take it?" she says, glancing at me furtively. "I know it's bound to be mostly rubbish, but who knows what we'll find in it..."

I glance up at the ceiling, where Harry and Bathilda might be right now, before saying, "Go for it. Something tells me it's the least of Bathilda's concern right now..."

As Hermione hesitates, thinking this over, before shoving the book in her beaded bag and looking very guilty about it, I walk across the sitting room aimlessly, reentering the hall again and looking around. I hear the sound of buzzing coming from the other side of a door at the end of the hall. Curious, and thinking somewhere in the back of my mind that I probably shouldn't be snooping, I walk towards the source of the noise, lighting my wand in the darkness. When I reach the door and my hand is on the doorknob, the buzzing louder than ever, I hesitate. I don't know what's on the other side, but I have a feeling it's nothing good. Finally, steeling myself, I open the door.

I let out a gasp at the sight that greets me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it registers that the room I'm in is a kitchen. There's blood everywhere. Blood streaks the sink and the cupboards and walls. There's a great blood stain on the previously stark white floor, where flies are swarming.

 _Looking for the carcass that goes with all this blood,_ I think.

I realise with a jolt that none of the blood is fresh. Whatever happened here happened a while ago.

"Hermione," I say, just loud enough to be heard. "We have to go."

"Why?" Hermione's voice comes from the sitting room.

"That's not the real Bathilda," I reply, and I'm not entirely sure how I know it. But I'm certain that whoever Harry is with, it's not Bathilda Bagshot. That Bathilda Bagshot has been dead for a long while, it seems. "Whoever's upstairs with Harry, it's not the real Bathilda Bagshot."

"What makes you so sure?" Hermione says, her voice tenser than before, and closer, too, meaning she's in the hall behind me.

"Come in here," is all I say.

I hear her footsteps behind me, and she lets out a gasp similar to mine as she takes in the sight from the light of my wand. For a moment, she's speechless, spluttering incoherently as she looks around the bloody room.

Finally, when she regains her ability to speak, "You - you don't think it's  _Bathilda_ , do you?"

"Who else?" I say, biting down on my lip.

Just then, we hear the same strange, raspy, hissing noise that Bathilda made from above. In unison, we see a heating vent, through which the sound must have carried.

"What  _is_ that?" Hermione says.

"It sounds a little like - " I begin, but then there's a loud crashing noise and a voice crying out in pain. Harry's voice.

Hermione and I exchange horrified looks. Then, we turn around and sprint down the hall, towards the staircase, Hermione pulling out her wand all the while. The staircase is steep and narrow, so that I have to file in behind Hermione. Once up the staircase, we follow the source of the noise to a door, flinging it open to reveal a low-ceilinged, nearly pitch black, and awful-smelling bedroom.

From the light of our wands and the light from the hall, we can see that Harry is leaning against the wall, scrambling to his feet, that Bathilda's old body is collapsed on the floor and completely still. And we see the outline of the great, long snake. I barely have time to register that this must be Voldemort's snake, Nagini, one of the Horcruxes, before it lunges for us, and we dive out of the way, our curses deflecting from it, causing no damage. Hermione's curse hits the curtained window, which shatters. The snake's tail hits me, and I slam against the wall, my wand flying out of my hand.

Groaning, I rise with difficulty and look around for my wand to no avail. I see Harry rising, too, his wand raised, but Hermione is nowhere to be found. For a moment, I think the worse, but then there's a loud bang and a flash of red light and the snake flies into the air, smacking Harry in the face as it goes, coil after heavy coil rising to the ceiling. I find a wooden plank, broken off from the dresser, and pick it up, smacking the snake with it before it can fall too close to Harry or Hermione.

"He's coming! Hazel, Hermione, he's coming!"

He yells this as the snake falls, and I find my wand and grab it, pointing it nervously at the snake. I realise Harry means Voldemort with an unpleasant jolt in my stomach. Harry leaps over the bed and grabs the back of my jacket, yanking me across the bed over to him. He does the same to Hermione, who shrieks. Everything is chaos, the snake smashing shelves from the wall, splintered china flying everywhere.

As we take a running leap, the snake lunges. As it strikes, Hermione screams, " _CONFRINGO!_ "

Her spell flies around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at us, bouncing from floor to ceiling. Glass cuts my cheek as we leap from the bed to the broken dressing table and straight out of the window into nothingness, Hermione's scream reverberating through the night as we twist in midair...

 

***

 

I kneel before Harry's bed, holding a sponge in my hand and wiping his face where sweat covers it. I'm a little restless. Hours have gone by since we left Godric's Hollow, narrowly missing Voldemort, and Harry's still lying unconscious, his body twitching and convulsing, muttering in his sleep. Hermione and I had agreed that it's best that at least one of us watch over him at a time. Hermione had done it first, healing the puncture wounds where Nagini had bit him and separating the locket from him using a Severing Charm, as it had been stuck to Harry's chest, then staying by his bedside for a few hours. Now it's me. It's almost morning, the stillness and the quality of the cold, flat light beyond the canvas ceiling indicating that it's nearly dawn.

I let out a small sigh, my worry increasing. When we had landed in this forest (the Forest of Dean, Hermione informs me, where she used to go camping with her parents), Harry's whole body had been shaking so badly that we had to use a Hovering Charm to get him inside the tent and onto his bunk. And still, hours later, he hasn't woken... occasionally, I can make out the things he murmurs in his sleep, laughter that is not his own and things like "Stand aside, you silly girl..." In times like this, I can't help but shudder a little bit, realising that he must be in Voldemort's mind...

"No," Harry moans suddenly, and he shudders.

My body freezes, looking down at him worriedly.

"No..."

"Harry?" I say nervously.

He's shaking harder now.

"No..."

"Harry, it's alright! You're fine, it's okay," I tell him, raising my voice in hopes he'll hear me through... whatever it is he's dreaming about.

He opens his eyes, but he still looks far away. I think back to what I had read in books about Occlumency... one way to get someone to block whatever they're seeing from their mind is to get them to describe what's physically in front of them. Focus on what's real, not on the images in your head...

"Harry, what do you see?" I ask him desperately.

"I... I see... the photograph," he says. "I dropped it... I dropped it..."

"Harry, don't focus on that, focus on me! Focus on what's around me... telling me what you see..."

There's a long silence, before he says, slowly, his words a little slurred, "There - there's you... and the bunk above me... and the kitchen behind you... and there's the entrance to the tent, and... how much longer do I have to keep doing this?"

I breathe a laugh, but I study his eyes carefully, making sure that he's really with me, before I say, "There. You're back."

"Yeah," he says, starting to sit up, but when he lets out a groan of pain, I push him back down gently, "that worked... how did you know to do that?"

I hesitate for a moment, before replying, "You know when you told me about how Snape had stopped giving you Occlumency lessons after what you saw in the Pensieve? Well, I was still a little worried that you wouldn't be able to block stuff out and something would get really, really out of control, so I read up about Occlumency and Legilimency. You know, so if something ever got out of hand, I'd know how to help you."

Harry stares at me, stunned. "How come you never told me?"

"It never really came up," I shrug. "And I saw no point in bringing it up unless I needed to help you. Anyway, are you alright?"

"No," he says, which I can sense is a lie. Then, he says, "We got away."

"Yes," I nod. "We had to use a Hover Charm to get you to your bed, though. We couldn't lift you. You were sort of... well, you've been... you've been ill," I finally say a little awkwardly. "Very, very ill."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago," I reply, as Hermione enters the tent. "It's nearly morning. Happy Christmas, by the way."

"I heard voices," Hermione says, kneeling down beside me. "Are you alright, Harry?"

"No," he says again, somehow an even bigger lie than before. "So I've been... what, unconscious?"

"Not exactly," Hermione replies uncomfortably. "You were moaning and muttering and... things."

There's a silence at that, where Harry looks rather ashamed. Before I can tell him he has  nothing to be ashamed for (I'm not sure if I'd really be able to convince him, anyway), Hermione continues.

"I couldn't get the Horcrux off you," she says, with the air of someone who just wants to change the subject. "It was stuck to your chest. You've got a mark; I'm sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you, too, but I've cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it..."

He pulls the sweaty t-shirt away from himself and looks down, where he'll find the scarlet, oval-shaped mark over his heart where the Horcrux had burned him. There's also the half-healed puncture marks from Nagini.

"Where've you put the Horcrus?"

"In my bag. We agreed to keep it off for a while."

"We shouldn't have gone to Godric's Hollow," Harry says suddenly. "It's my fault, it's all my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I say, a little fiercely. "We all wanted to go. We thought Dumbledore might've hid the sword there for us."

"Yeah, well... we got that wrong, didn't we?" Harry says.

"What... what happened, Harry?" Hermione asks tentatively. She steals a glance at me, before saying, "We've... we've had our theories about Bathilda, but the snake... where did it come from? Was it hiding somewhere? Did it come out and kill her and attack you?"

"No," Harry shakes his head. "She was the snake... or the snake was her... all along."

Hermione and I look at each other. We had discussed that the Bathilda we had seen was clearly not the real Bathilda, had agreed upon that, but what Harry's saying... that hasn't even crossed our minds.

"W-What?"

He closes his eyes. "Bathilda must've been dead for a while. The snake was... insider her. You-Know-Who put it there in Godric's Hollow, to wait. You two were right. He knew I'd come back."

"The snake was  _inside_ her?" I repeat, and I'm relieved to see that at least Hermione looks as revolted as I feel.

"Remus said there'd be magic we never imagined," Harry recalls. "She didn't want to talk in front of you two, because it was Parseltongue, it was all Parseltongue, and I didn't realise it, but of course I understood her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there, and then... she changed, turned into the snake, and attacked."

I feel like he's leaving out all the details of the transformation, but before I can ask, he continues. He looks down at the puncture wounds on his forearm.

"It wasn't supposed to kill me, just keep me there until he came," he says. "What did you guys think?"

"Well, we went into the kitchen and we saw blood everywhere," I explain. "And it wasn't new, either, it must've been there for a while. We thought it must've been Bathilda's, because who else could it have been? We just thought whoever had come to see us must've been someone else in disguise, but we never thought that it'd be the snake... we just thought a Death Eater or something..."

Harry sits up suddenly, throwing back the covers.

"Harry, no, I'm sure you ought to rest!" Hermione protests.

"If anyone needs sleep, it's the two of you. No offence, but you look terrible. I'm fine. I'll keep watch for a while. Where's my wand?"

Neither of us answer, just looking at each other. My heart dropping, I think back to the sight of Harry's broken wand, nearly severed in two, the wood splintered apart completely, with one fragile strand of phoenix hair keeping it together.

"Where's my wand?" Harry demands.

I bite down on my lip. Hermione's eyes swim with tears.

"Harry..."

"Where's my wand?" he says again. I look over at Hermione one more time, before reaching down beside the bed and holding the broken wand out to him. For a moment, he just stares at it. And then he takes it, holding it in his hands like a living thing that had suffered a terrible injury. Again, he just stares at it. Then he holds it out to Hermione.

"Mend it. Please."

"Harry, I don't think when it's broken like this - "

"Please, Hermione, try!"

" _R-Reparo!_ "

The dangling half of the wand reseals itself. Harry holds it up.

" _Lumos!_ "

The wand sparks feebly, then goes out. He holds it out to Hermione.

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Hermione's wand gives a little jerk, but it does not leave her hand. The feeble attempt at magic is too much for the wand, and it splits in two again. Harry stares at it, aghast.

"Harry," Hermione whispers, so quietly I barely hear her. "I'm so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have - it must have hit - "

"It was an accident," Harry says mechanically. "We'll - we'll find a way to repair it."

"Harry, I don't think we'll be able to," she says, tears trickling down her face. "Remember... remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one."

I feel a surge of pity, then. I think of Ollivander, who has been kidnapped and is being held hostage by Voldemort. I think of Gregorovitch, who is dead. How could Harry get a new wand?

"Well," Harry says, his voice falsely matter-of-fact. "Well, I'll just borrow yours from now on, then. While I keep watch."

Her face glazed with tears, Hermione hands over her wand, and he leaves us there, leaving  _me_ with the feeling that all he really wants is to be away from us.


	21. The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore**

 

The sun is coming up, the pure, colourless vastness of the sky stretching over us, apparently unknowing and indifferent to everything we've been through over the past night. I stare up at the canvas of the tent, my hands behind my head as I lie on my bunk. I had tried to get sleep like Harry had said, but I remain as sleepless as ever, and if anything, lying awake, doing nothing, makes me feel like I'm wasting time. Of course, I'm not entirely sure what I would do with that time, but moving around, doing anything seems better than just sitting around. Not to mention, my bunk is right above where Ron's used to be, and constantly being above the space he used to fill makes his absence all the more pronounced.

Sighing and not the least bit rested, I drop to the floor and walk to the entrance of the tent, ducking out to join Harry, sitting down across from him, leaning against a tree in the forest. Harry says nothing, simply nods in acknowledgement of my presence. I notice the way his hand is clutching Hermione's wand, way too tightly to be natural, because this is unfamiliar to him. This wand doesn't belong to him and it shows.

"You know she didn't mean for it to happen," I say, nodding at the wand. "Any of it."

"I know."

"I'm guessing you still don't feel any better about it, though," I say shrewdly, staring at him.

For a moment, he's silent. And then he says, "Look, I know you're probably going to say that the wand is only as good as the wizard, but it's not true. Not for me. My wand saved my life without me even meaning to do anything. The fact that me and You-Know-Who used to have the same core for our wands protected me for so long, and now I don't even have that."

I'm silent, thinking this over. Then I say, trying to fill my voice with confidence, "You won't need it. In the end. It won't matter, we'll beat him without it."

He says nothing to this, though, and I know he doesn't believe me.

"So you read up on Occlumency," Harry says suddenly, more to break the silence more than anything. "How much?"

"Not enough to really ever be able to teach you anything," I reply. "Enough to be able to pull you back if you went too far. I was worried. Snape might've been willing to risk Voldemort accessing your mind without doing anything about it, but I wasn't."

He's quiet for a moment, thinking this over; then, "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," I shrug. "Somebody had to."

Harry opens his mouth to reply when Hermione comes out of the tent, too, balancing three cups of tea in her hands and a book shoved under her arm. She looks frightened as she regards Harry, as though he might try and curse her with her own wand.

"Thanks," we tell her as we each take a cup.

"Do you mind if I talk to you?" Hermione says, the question directed more at Harry.

"No," Harry says, more, I suspect, because he doesn't want to hurt her feelings than anything else.

"Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well... I've got the book."

She pulls out the book from under her arm and pushes the pristine copy of  _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ onto his lap.

"Where - how - ?"

"It was in Bathilda's house, just sitting there... this note was sticking out from the top of it."

Hermione reads out the few lines of spiky, acid-green words that Rita Skeeter had left for Bathilda, then adds, "I think it must have arrived while the real Bathilda was still alive, but perhaps she wasn't in any fit state to read it?"

"No, she probably wasn't," Harry agrees, looking down at the cover.

Hermione studies him carefully, before saying, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes, "You're still really angry at me, aren't you?"

"No," Harry tells her, and I decide that he has told better lies than that before. "No, Hermione, I know it was an accident. You were trying to get us out of there alive, and you were incredible. I'd be dead if it wasn't for you and Hazel."

Hermione shoots him a watery smile. Harry gives a brave attempt at returning it, before returning his attention to the book. I move to sit beside him so that I can look over his shoulder as he flicks through pages, looking for photographs. He comes across the one of young Dumbledore and his handsome companion almost at once, the two of them roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten joke. My eyes drop to the caption.

_Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother's death, with friend, Gellert Grindelwald._

I stare at the caption with my mouth open. Grindelwald.  _Grindelwald._ His _friend_ , Gellert Grindelwald. I look sideways at Harry and Hermione, who both look as though they can't believe what they're saying either.

"Grindelwald!" Hermione whispers, slowly looking up at us.

Neither of us say anything to that. Harry searches the other pages for another mention of the name. He finds it and we all read greedily, but then get lost rather quickly. We have to go farther back to make sense of it all, so Harry goes backward until he's at the start of a chapter called 'The Greater Good'. Together, Harry, Hermione, and I all start reading:

_Now approaching his eighteenth birthday, Dumbledore left school in a blaze of glory - that is to say, Head Boy, Prefect Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Youth Representative for the Wizengamot, Gold Medal-Winner for Groundbreaking Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Dumbledore intended next to take a Grand Tour with Elphias "Dogbreath" Doge, the dimwitted but devoted sidekick that he had picked up in school._

_The two men were staying in the Leaky Cauldron, preparing to depart for Greece the next morning, when an owl arrived bearing news of Dumbledore's mother's death. "Dogbreath" Doge, who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given his own sentimental version of what happened next. He represents Kendra's death as a tragic blow, and that Dumbledore's decision to give up his expedition as an act of noble self-sacrifice._

_Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric's Hollow at once, supposedly to 'care' for his younger brother and sister. But how much care did he actually provide for them?_

_"He was a headcase, that Aberforth," said Enid Smeek, whose family lived on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow at the time. "Ran wild. 'Course, with his mum and dad gone you'd have felt sorry for him, only he kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don't think Albus was fussed about him. I never saw them together, anyway."_

_So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild younger brother? The answer, it seems, is ensuring the continued imprisonment of his younger sister. For though her first jailer had died, there was no change in the pitiful condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her continued existence was only trusted to few outsiders who, like "Dogbreath" Doge, could be trusted to believe in the story of her "ill health."_

_Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated magical historian, who has lived in Godric's Hollow for many years. Kendra, of course, had first rebuffed Bathilda when she had tried to welcome the family to the village. Several years later, however, the author sent an owl to Albus at Hogwarts, having been favourably impressed by his paper on trans-species transformation that he had written for_ Transfiguration Today. _This initial contact had led to acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. At the time of Kendra's death, Bathilda was the only person in Godric's Hollow who was on speaking terms with Dumbledore's mother._

_Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda had shown in her life dimmed considerably as time went on. "The fire's lit, but the cauldron's empty," as Ivor Dillonsby has put to me, in Enid Smeek's earthier phrase, "She's nutty as squirrel poo." Nevertheless, a combination of tried and tested reporting techniques enabled me to extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together the whole scandalous story._

_Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts Kendra's death down to a backfiring charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth several years later. Bathilda also parrots the family line on Ariana, calling her "frail" and "delicate." On one subject, however, Bathilda is well worth the effort I put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she alone know the full story on the best kept secret in Albus Dumbledore's life. Now revealed for the first time, it puts everything his admirers say about Dumbledore into question: his supposed hatred of the Dark Arts, his opposition into the oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his family._

_The very same summer that Dumbledore returned to Godric's Hollow, now an orphan and head of the family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her home her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald._

_The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: in a list of Most Dangerous Wizard of All Time, he would miss on the top spot only because You-Know-Who arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As Grindelwald never extended his campaign of terror to Britain, however, the details of his rise to power are not widely known here._

_Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then for its unfortunate tolerance for the Dark Arts, Grindelwald showed himself as precociously brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his abilities into the achievement of awards and prizes, however, Grindelwald devoted himself to other pursuits. At sixteen years, even Durmstrang felt it could not turn a blind eye to the twisted experiments of Grindelwald, and he was expelled._

_Hitherto, all that was known of Grindelwald's next movements was that he "travelled for some months." It can now be revealed that he chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric's Hollow and that there, no matter how shocking it might be for some to hear, struck up a close friendship with none other than Albus Dumbledore._

_"He seemed a charming boy to me," Bathilda babbles, "whatever he became later. Naturally I introduced him to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads his own age. The boys took to each other at once."_

_They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept by her that Albus Dumbledore sent to Gellert Grindelwald in the dead of night._

_"Yes, even after they spent all day in discussion - both such brilliant boys, they got on like a cauldron on fire - I'd sometimes hear an owl tapping at Gellert's window, delivering a letter from Albus! An idea would have struck him and he'd have to let Gellert know immediately!"_

_And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking though Albus Dumbledore fans will find it, here are the thoughts of their seventeen year-old hero, as relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original letter may be seen on page 463.)_

 

Gellert - 

Your point about wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES' OWN GOOD - this, I think is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given a power, and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibility over the ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, then we would never have met.)

Albus

 

_Astonished and appalled tough many of his admirers might be, this letter constitutes the Statue of Secrecy and establishing wizards ruling over Muggles. What a blow for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as Muggle-borns' greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How despicable does Dumbledore seem, busy plotting his rise to power when he should have been mourning his mother and caring for his sister!_

_No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after all, put these plans into action, that he must have suffered a change of heart, that he came to his senses. The truth, however, seems altogether more shocking._

_Barely two months into their new great friendship, Dumbledore and Grindelwald parted, never to see each other again until they met for their legendary duel (for more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt rupture? Had Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he told Grindelwald that he wanted no more part in his plans? Alas, no._

_"It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it," Bathilda says. "It came as an awful shock. Gellert was there in the house when it happened, and he came back into my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you know. So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of him._

_"Albus was beside himself at Ariana's death. It was so dreadful for the two brothers. They had lost everybody except for each other. No wonder tempers ran a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as people will under such dreadful circumstances. But Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All the same, breaking Albus' nose at the funeral was not decent. It would've destroyed Kendra to see her son's brawling like that, across her daughter's body. A shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral... he would've been a comfort to Albus, at least..."_

_This dreadful coffin-side brawl, known only to the few who attended Ariana Dumbledore's funeral, raises several question. Why exactly did Aberforth blame Albus for Ariana's death? Was it, as "Batty" pretends, a mere effusion of grief? Or could there be a more concrete reason for his fury? Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for near-fatal attacked on students, fled the country hours after the girl's death, and Albus (out of shame or fear?) never saw him again, not until forced to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world._

_Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald seems to have referred to this brief boyhood friendship later on in life. However, there can be no doubt that Dumbledore delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. Was it lingering affection for the man or fear of exposure at his once best friend that caused Dumbledore to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that Dumbledore set out to capture the man that he was once so delighted that he had met? And how did mysterious Ariana die? Was she the inadvertent victim of some Dark rite? Did she stumble across something she ought not to have done, as the two men sat there practising for their attempt at glory and domination? Was it possible that Ariana Dumbledore was the first to die "for the greater good"?_

 

The chapter ends there and I look up at Harry and Hermione. Hermione was already done reading, watching us, but Harry's not quite done yet. Hermione and I exchange one stunned look, before we sit there in heavy silence, waiting for Harry to finish. My head is spinning at what I've just read.

 _This is Rita Skeeter,_ I remind myself determinedly.  _Rita Skeeter, who specialised in lies and exaggerations. You learned just how much of her writing can be untrue in fourth year._

But that letter... she didn't make up that letter. He must have been my age now, if not a little older, talking about dominating the world and ruling over Muggles... willing to use God knows what kind of Dark magic to reach his goals before - before - 

Before he had stopped himself. Because he had. No matter what the wake up call had been, it had came and it had served his purpose. He had  _stopped._ It had even been him who had stopped Grindelwald, in the end. And then he had spent the rest of his life fighting for the rights of Muggles and Muggle-borns, hadn't he? Whoever Dumbledore was when he was young, he wasn't the Dumbledore any of us knew.

Harry finishes reading and looks up at us, his facial expression a mixture of fury and loss and betrayal. Hermione, looking a little alarmed at this, tugs the book out of his hands and closes it without looking at it, as though hiding something indecent.

"Harry - "

But he just shakes his head. I think I know what he's thinking. When Ron had left, it had been an odd feeling, as though realising that we hadn't known Ron at all in the yeas we had known each other, like  _that_ Ron was gone for good. Now, after reading this chapter it's something similar.

"Harry," I say, trying to sound certain of myself. "Look, I know it doesn't make for very pleasant reading - "

"Yeah, you could say that - "

" - but you should remember," I continue firmly, "that Rita Skeeter wrote this."

"You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn't you?" Harry retorts.

"Yes, I did," I admit. "I think that's the worst of it. From the looks of it, Bathilda thought it was all talk, but I did a little digging into Grindelwald and 'For the Greater Good' sort of became Grindelwald's slogan, the way he justified all the awful things he did later on. And from that letter... it looks like Dumbledore gave him the idea. Apparently, it's even carved over the entrance to Nurmengard."

"What's Nurmengard?"

"The prison he built to hold all his enemies," Hermione interjects. "He ended up there himself, once Dumbledore caught him. Anyway, it - it's awful that Dumbledore's ideas helped Grindelwald rise to power. But on the other hand, even Rita can't pretend that they knew each other for more than a few months one summer when they were both really young - "

"I thought you'd say that," Harry says, his voice shaking slightly from anger. "I thought you'd say that they were young. They were the same age as we are now. And here we are, risking our lives to fight against the Dark Arts, and there he was, in a huddle with his new best friend, plotting their rise to power over Muggles."

He stands up, pacing up and down, probably in an attempt to work off steam.

"I'm not defending what Dumbledore wrote," Hermione says. "All that 'right to rule' rubbish, it's 'Magic is Might' all over again. But, Harry, his mother had just died, he was stuck all alone in the house - "

"Alone? He wasn't alone! He had his brother and sister to keep him company, his Squib sister he was keeping locked up - "

"I don't believe it," Hermione says. She stands up, too, and I follow suit a little warily. "Whatever was wrong with that girl, I don't think she was a Squib. The Dumbledore we knew would never, ever have allowed - "

"The Dumbledore we thought we knew wouldn't have wanted to conquer Muggles by force!" Harry shouts, his voice echoing across the empty hilltop, and several blackbirds erupt from trees, squawking and spiralling against the early morning sky.

"But he  _changed_ , Harry," I point out. "For a while when he was seventeen, yeah, he believed all this nonsense, and there's no excusing it, but the fact is he realised what he was doing was wrong and he stopped. It was him who stopped Grindelwald, and him who was always advocating for Muggle protection and Muggle-born rights, and him who tried to stop You-Know-Who from the beginning, and he died trying to bring him down."

Rita's book lies on the ground between us, Dumbledore's face smiling dolefully at us.

"Harry, look..." I saw slowly. "Not that I particularly blame you, but I don't think it's not just what he did that's bothering you. It's the fact that you had to find out from Rita Skeeter and not him."

"Maybe I am!" he yells, throwing his arms over his head. "Look what he asked me to do, Hazel! Risk you life, Harry! And again! And again! And don't expect me to explain anything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I'm doing, trust me even though I don't trust you. Never the whole truth! Never!"

His voice cracks with strain. We stare at each other in the whiteness and emptiness of the sky, and underneath the width and vastness of it, it feels like we're the most insignificant thing in the world.

"He loved you," Hermione whispers suddenly. "I know he did."

Harry drops his arms. "I don't know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn't love, the mess he's left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was thinking with Grindelwald than he ever did with me."

Harry picks up Hermione's wand, which he had dropped in the snow, and then sits back down at the entrance of the tent.

"Thanks for the tea. I'll finish the watch. You two get back inside and get warm."

Hermione and I hesitate, glancing at each other, but recognise the dismissal. Hermione picks up the book, and I lead the way back inside the tent. As I go, I brush my fingers over the top of Harry's head lightly, a gesture Harry and I used to do to each other a lot as kids, bringing comfort for reasons we could never quite place. His posture relaxes a little as I do, telling me I've done the right thing. Once inside the tent, I let out a sigh, looking around aimlessly and wishing Dumbledore didn't have to be such a mystery in death as well as life.


	22. Knockturn Alley

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Knockturn Alley**

 

It's snowing by the time I take watch at Midnight. Overall it's fairly peaceful, except I hear moving a few times, making my heart beat faster in my chest. I dismiss it as animals, but then I see a shadow. A shadow of what's definitely a person. But then no further noise is made, and nobody shows themselves, so I decide that it must've been the darkness, the falling snow, my mind playing tricks on me.

I bring my jacket closer about myself and shiver, holding up the locket from my chest and wondering if wearing it has anything to do with how cold I feel. I clutch it tightly in my grip, waiting, waiting, until I feel it pulsing faintly in my hands, like it has its own beating heart. Feeling the supposed heartbeat in my hands, however, just makes me feel nauseous, as though seasick (at least, I think it feels like seasickness would; besides the little boats across the Great Lake in first year, I've never been on a boat). I hasten to take the thing off, placing it on my lap instead and staring down at it.

"I can't wait until we've destroyed you," I tell it. "I can't wait until I never have to wear you again."

The locket does nothing, lying cold and indifferent on my lap. I don't know what I expected. For some version of Voldemort to burst from the locket and kill me? At least that would've been  _something_ , though. And if I managed to survive it, maybe it'd tell me something about Horcruxes, so we could learn more about them, know how to get rid of them.

I let out a sigh, looking up from the locket before I can get irritated enough to throw it as hard as I can (which  _is_ pretty hard; I have Quidditch to thank for that), and then have to get up and find the stupid thing. I mentally go over all the places we discussed where Voldemort might've hidden a Horcrux, my mind mostly on autopilot. Albania. Out of the question. Reason: Voldemort had already made five out of his six Horcruxes before he went into exile, the sixth being the snake, which was always by Voldemort's side, not in Albania. Hogwarts. Mostly out of the question. Reason: Voldemort had never got the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, giving him little time to hide a Horcrux somewhere. Borgin and Burkes. Out of the question. Reason: they specialised in Dark objects, something like a Horcrux would be recognised right away.

Borgin and Burkes. I think the name over and over again, an idea forming vaguely in my mind, not yet in the shape of something specific that I can make sense of. Still, there's that feeling when an idea, a solution to the problem, is going to come into your mind, that tight feeling in your stomach.

They would be able to detect an object as Dark as a Horcrux in a heartbeat. They must know loads of information about Horcruxes. Certainly enough information to give us more insight about them. Maybe enough information to know ways to destroy one. Ways that didn't involve having to find the ever elusive sword of Gryffindor.

And then I'm excited, barely able to sit still, on the verge of jumping up and down with the excitement. No doubt a lot of this stems from the need to do something, to be productive, to not feel like we're not just sitting around while Voldemort destroys more and more of the world as I know it, to not feel like we're just proving Ron's point, but it's not enough to spur me from wanting to do this. I have to tell Harry and Hermione, right away, the sooner they know the sooner we can leave - 

"Hazel! Come in here."

Deciding that that must be a sign, I throw the locket back around my neck, tucking it under my shirt, get to my feet, stretching, before ducking back inside the tent. I see Harry and Hermione standing together, the latter pulling a jumper over her pyjamas.

"We've decided to leave a bit earlier," Hermione explains. "Maybe somewhere a bit more sheltered? This is rather out in the open, but I'd barely been thinking when I brought us from Godric's Hollow, I was so rushed and really only focusing on getting us  _out_."

"Definitely somewhere more sheltered," I tell them. "I dunno, I might've been imagining it, but I heard people moving a couple of times. Once I thought I saw someone, too."

Harry pauses in the act of pulling on a jumper himself, turning to look at the still and silent Sneakoscope on the table.

"I'm sure I was imagining it," I say bracingly, though a little nervously, too. "The snow and the dark, it plays tricks on your eyes. I was feeling a little restless, too, maybe it made me start thinking I was seeing stuff that wasn't actually there... still, maybe we should Disapparate under the Invisibility Cloak again?"

Half an hour later, with the tent packed, me still wearing the Horcrux, and Hermione clutching the beaded bag, we Disapparate under the Cloak. The usual feeling of suffocating darkness ensues; I feel my feet leave the snowy ground, then slam hard onto what feels like frozen earth covered with leaves. Stumbling slightly, I grip onto Harry's arm to steady myself, before straightening up, blinking in the darkness.

"Where are we?" Harry asks, peering around at the fresh mass of trees while Hermione opens the beaded bag and begins pulling out tent poles.

"The Forest of Dean," she replies. "I came camping here once or twice with Mum and Dad."

There's snow all around here, too, and it's bitterly cold, but at least we're protected from the wind. We settle inside the tent, huddled around the useful bright blue flames that Hermione is adept at producing, which can be scooped up and carried around in a jar.

Once I decide that we're sufficiently settled, I turn to them and say, "I've had an idea."

They both turn to me, curious, but with the faintest hint of excitement on their faces. Saying  _I've had an idea_ meant progress, meant action, meant being people who were actually getting shit done instead of some lost, wandering, clueless teenagers against what seems to be the entirety of the world - so, naturally, those words tend to stir something.

Charging on, knowing that there is really no way to go about this than to just say it, I say, "I think we should go to Borgin and Burkes."

There's a surprised silence at these words. And then - "

"But, Hazel - why - ?"

"We've already decided there wouldn't be a Horcrux - "

"I know, I know, You-Know-Who would never be dumb enough to try and hide a Horcrux there," I say, cutting them off. "But the reason why he'd never do it is because they know so much about Dark objects they'd be able to sense a Horcrux from a mile away, right? Which means they must know loads about Horcruxes, right? Maybe they can tell us something more about them, so we know them a little better. Any little bit of information might make it easier to figure them out, right? Who knows, maybe they even know other ways to destroy a Horcrux. If there's some other way besides trying to find a sword that seems real determined not to be found, don't you want to know about it?"

They're both hesitant at this. Still, I do see a part of them, no matter how small, that does seem intrigued by this. No doubt a part of that is the aforementioned excitement at the idea of actually doing something. The prospect of feeling useful when you've spent so long feeling useless is typically one that's very difficult to pass up.

"Say we do go to Borgin and Burkes," Harry says slowly, indicating that I've basically won him over, "what would we do? What would we say? We can't just barge in and start talking about Horcruxes."

"I know that," I say. "I'm not saying we go right this precise second. We can plan out what we say and then do it." When they still say nothing, looking wary, I add, "Look, the fact is we still don't know that much about Horcruxes. We've learned from those books, but all in all, we've still got a lot to learn. Even if we don't learn a different way to destroy it, it won't hurt to know a little more about what we're dealing with, would it?"

Harry studies me for a moment, before saying, "Fine. I'm in."

I smile gratefully at him, before we both turn to Hermione. Sighing, she says, "It'll be dangerous."

"Doing anything's dangerous these days," I retort.

"I don't mean we shouldn't go!" she says, a little defensively. "I just mean we need to be careful about how we do this."

Realising that she means that she's on board with the idea, too, I smile, relieved. Now that that's over, we spend the rest of the night and all of the next day planning out what we're going to do (none of us can sleep, so we don't, instead spending the time to make sure the plan is perfectly clear).

"When should we do this?" Hermione asks, late afternoon the next day, once everyone is satisfied with the plan.

"Tomorrow," Harry says suddenly, surprising me. I'd been expecting to wait another day or to before we went ahead with it.

"Tomorrow?" Hermione repeats uncertainly. "Are you sure -?"

"What good would waiting do?" Harry replies. "We've already got the plan worked out, and it's not like - like breaking into the Ministry or going to Godric's Hollow. We know what Knockturn Alley's like, we know what Borgin and Burkes is like, and we know what Borgin himself is like. It's not like we're going in blind, so why wait?"

"It's a good point," I admit thoughtfully. "And no time like the present, I suppose."

Hermione bites her lip, looking nervous, but still says, "Oh, alright. Tomorrow it is, then. But we'll have to be really, really - "

"Careful," Harry and I finish firmly for her, and she cracks a smile.

Night comes around with little disturbance, and Hermione suggests we all get some sleep this time, "if we're all about to go take a stroll through Knockturn Alley tomorrow," to quote her. I, however, offer to take watch for the night instead.

"You haven't slept, though," Hermione frowns.

I shrug. "I'll get some sleep when I'm sure we're okay. I'm still a little freaked out by the noises I heard yesterday, I suppose."

Neither of them seem to like it much, but they say nothing as I walk forward and sit down at the entrance of the tent. There's no disturbance this time, though I hadn't really expected any, either. I'm just trying to avoid sleep. When I sleep, I have nightmares of everyone I love getting tortured, captured, killed, and I don't like dwelling on that if I don't have to. I drift in and out of sleep, but other than that, remain fairly awake by the time the sun comes up again. I jump when the flaps to the tent open, but then relax when I see it's only Harry, who sits down beside me, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Merlin, you scared me!"

"Sorry," he shrugs. "So, I suppose you still don't think we're safe here, if you haven't gone in yet."

"Are we really safe anywhere?" I retort evasively. "Besides, how do you know I didn't go to sleep, wake up before anyone else, then come back out?"

"Stop being difficult," he says. "And I know because if you'd gone to sleep, you would've needed Hermione to drag you out of bed again."

"You're the worst," I say, shoving him, and he grins.

"And you've barely been sleeping lately," Harry replies. "Why not?"

"Restless times," I say. "And I keep having nightmares... I like avoiding them at all costs."

"Yeah," he says, giving me a meaningful look, "I sort of know a lot about those."

I stare at him, a sinking feeling in my stomach, suddenly feeling awful for reasons outside of my sleeplessness. How can I be complaining to  _him_ about nightmares, considering what he has to deal with night  _and_ day?

"Jesus, Harry, I'm sorry," I say, sighing and look away. "I shouldn't even be complaining, with You-Know-Bloody-Who trying to get into your mind all the time."

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, "I'm not the only one who's entitled to nightmares."

Morning passes by unnaturally quickly, and before we know it, we've packed up the tent, taken off the protective enchantments, and are under the Invisibility Cloak, the Horcrux around Harry's neck this time. As planned, we've all magically altered our appearances. Harry, instead of his normal jet black hair, has shaggy brown hair that covers his forehead, shielding his scar from view; he's a little shorter and wider, with bushier eyebrows and dark brown eyes instead of the typical bright green. Hermione's bushy hair falls in light waves instead, a shade lighter than usual, her eyes have gone from brown to greenish blue, her face is more freckled, and she's taller than usual now. My hair has been changed to a short, choppy cut, blonde instead of black, my eyes are sky blue, and I'm a few inches shorter than usual.

I go to put the Cross of Elements on my finger, but then pause halfway. Borgin and Burkes might specialise in Dark objects, but they might recognise other kinds too. I can't risk them getting too interested in the Cross of Elements. I stuff the ring in my sock instead, then grab onto Hermione's outstretched hand. She twists on the spot under the Cloak, and with the familiar cracking noise, we disappear, the darkness pressing all around, until we land hard on the cobble-stoned ground of Knockturn Alley.

The place is quite as I remember it. A dark, shadowy place even during the day, the single lane twisting and turning forward, little shops standing side by side, as though stuck together on both sides. There are more people than the last time I visited, but still not many, a few people scattered here and there. I'm glad for it. The lack of people will make it easier to navigate under the Invisibility Cloak without having to worry about bumping into people.

Harry, Hermione, and I glance at each other. They look nothing like themselves, but there still is something about them that is very them, most likely because I know it is them under all those spells, but it's still comforting. Together, we make our way down the winding alley, walking slowly to make sure we make no noise and hardly daring to breathe, particularly when we pass by people. People talk amongst themselves, occasionally letting out a low menacing laugh that I can't believe people actually have in real life. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I realise that we're all still holding hands. We hardly need to, we have to stick very close together to all fit underneath the Invisibility Cloak anyway, but I make no move to let go of Hermione's hand, and neither of them do either.

Once we're right in front of Borgin and Burkes, we stare up at the building, before Hermione whispers, loudly as can be said without being heard in the relatively quiet alley, "Well... here it goes."

We hurry into the shadows, and, making sure that nobody is watching, Hermione ducks out of the Cloak. She'll go in first, by herself, to chat with whoever's at the shop, be it Borgin or Burke. If that ends up not working out well, I'll step in myself, and if worse comes to worst, so will Harry. However, Harry intervening is a last resort, because even if he doesn't look like Harry and that scar is covered up, he's still Undesirable No. 1. Him being out in the open, especially in a place like Knockturn Alley, is not ideal. Hermione checks her reflection in the glass of the door, smoothing down her now wavy brown hair, putting on a pleasant smile, and opening the door, slipping inside.

Immediately, I dig through the pocket of my robes and pull out Extendable Ears. I hand one flesh-coloured string to Harry, and we both feed the end of the string through the crack between the door and the ground, bringing the other end to our ear. Immediately, the conversation unfolding between Hermione and Borgin becomes loud and clear, as though we're right in the room with them. I take a moment to be grateful for Fred and George, before focusing on the conversation.

".. and is there anything in particular you're looking for today, ma'am?" says Borgin, bowing his head and giving her a smile that comes out as more of a leer than anything.

"Yes," Hermione replies, "though I don't think it's something you can really set a price on."

Borgin says nothing at this, continuing to stare at her. I study his face carefully, and feel relief at the expression on it. He's trying his very hardest to look bored and unconcerned, but I can see that he's paying very close attention to Hermione now. He might not want to admit it, but she has his interest.

"And what might that be?" he finally says, when Hermione does not elaborate, clearly waiting for Borgin to cave. She's playing this well. Things are going good.

_Let's hope it stays that way._

She walks forward until she's at the counter and says simply, "Knowledge."

Borgin raises his eyebrows. "Now, I don't know about that. I can most certainly set a price on knowledge, depending on what it is you want to know."

"I'm just curious about an interesting bit of Dark magic," Hermione says. "They're called... well, you might not have heard of them, they are very rare - "

"Spit it out, girl!" Borgin says, apparently offended at the suggestion that there is any bit of Dark magic he doesn't know about.

"Well, they're called Horcruxes," Hermione says, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper.

Borgin leans back slowly at this, and I can't tell if he's recoiling at the suggestion or if he's trying to get a better look at her as a whole, now more interested than ever. "Horcruxes? What's a girl like you doing digging into Horcruxes? Not thinking about making one for yourself, are you?"

"I'm not sure if that's any of your business," Hermione replies coolly, but there's a hint of disgust on her face, anger at the mere suggestion of making Horcruxes for herself. Borgin notices it, but he seems to take it as reluctance to share any personal information - or, that is, plans to make Horcruxes - with him.

"Well, this  _will_ cost you," Borgin says, almost warningly, "depending on what you want to know. I think I'll decide afterwards."

"Fair enough," Hermione says. "I'm just curious... are they truly as indestructible as people say?"

"Close enough to it," Borgin replies gruffly. "Those things are damn near impossible to destroy."

"But there are ways to do it, aren't there?"

"Sure there are," he shrugs. "But any method is difficult as hell to manage. It's nearly harder to destroy a Horcrux than to make one, since there are so few ways of doing it. You'd do yourself a bigger favour by killing  _yourself_ than trying."

 _Thanks for the vote of confidence, Borgin,_ I think.  _Seriously, we had no idea it was going to be difficult._

Harry nudges me, and for one wild moment, I think my sarcastic thoughts were so loud that even Harry could hear them or at least feel them, but then he's jerking his head in the direction from which we came, and I look to see a group of people walking in the direction of the shop. They appear to all be wizards, but I can't tell what exactly they look like, since the shadows swallow all the details, only leaving their silhouettes. I count around eleven or twelve overall, and it might just be my paranoia or the general feel of this place, but they seem pretty menacing. I look back over at Harry, and I know he's thinking the same thing. I that group of people turns out to be enemies (which seems more likely than anything else) we'll be outnumbered four to one. Do we have a chance of making it out? Maybe. Is it a very big chance? Not really.

"Well, what are those ways?" Hermione asks, apparently not having seen the group yet.

"What do we do?" I ask Harry, so quietly I barely hear it. "Do we get her out of there?"

"Well, there's Basilisk venom," Borgin's telling Hermione from inside the shop. "If you have any of that lying around, that always does the trick."

"How could we?" Harry retorts from right beside me, his lips barely moving, though it's not visibility that's our problem. "We couldn't let her know what's happening without drawing attention. We don't even know if they're a threat for sure."

But one more glance back at them tells us that they're clearly nothing friendly.

"Yes, I've heard about Basilisk venom," Hermione's saying, her voice still pleasant but with an edge of impatience in it. "Is that it, though? Are there any other ways you know about? Maybe something a little more... accessible to all?"

Borgin frowns at her. "Are you trying to make one or destroy one?"

"Just a curious learner..." Hermione reassures him.

"We'll wait to see if they come in," Harry whispers in my ear. "If they do, we'll sneak inside with them and wait to see if they do anything. If they do, we'll fight and try and get out of there, if not... then we're in the clear."

I nod once, and neither of us can say anything after that, because then the group are very, very close, and they're bound to hear us if we speak again. The sun hits them as they walk, and I can finally make out faces and do another quick count. Definitely twelve of them overall, all following a woman with bright blue, sharp eyes and long, mangled hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. I realise, my stomach dropping with fear, that Fenrir Greyback is among their number. Licking my lips nervously, I force myself to stay calm.

They pass by us, so close to us that the Cloak billows about for a moment, but they don't feel it or see our momentarily exposed feet. Borgin had been about to explain other methods of destroying Horcruxes, but then he sees the group approaching and stops short. Hermione frowns, looking irritated at Borgin's abrupt halt (even though my anxiety, I'm upset, too,) but then turns to see the group and the irritating turns into confusion.

"What is it?" she says. "Who are they?"

"Snatchers," Borgin hisses back.

Immediately, Harry and I snap our heads to look at each other. We'd heard a thing or two about Snatchers, mentioned in passing in whatever copies of the  _Prophet_ we could get our hands on. From the sounds of it, they're essentially the people who had wanted to be a Death Eater but hadn't been considered worthy. As a result, they've taken to rounding up Muggle-borns, blood-traitors, and other enemies to Voldemort and his cause, on the chance that it might earn Voldemort's favour and a place among the Death Eaters. It also seems to belong to the people who were sympathetic with his cause but didn't quite want the permanent dedication and attachment that comes with being a Death Eater. If Voldemort loses ( _when_ , I remind myself stubbornly,  _when Voldemort loses_ ), it'll be easier to get yourself out of trouble if you're only a Snatcher. But if you're a Death Eater with a mark on your arm to prove it? There's no getting out of punishment then. Basically, they're a group comprised of the desperate, the cowardly, and the bored, all with varying levels of bloodthirstiness to them.

And they're also very, very bad news for us.

The leader of the group flings the door open, and the group of Snatchers lumber inside the shop. Harry and I move forward as one under the Cloak, managing to slip inside the shop just before the door closes. Though we're invisible, we take several steps back, until we're pressed against a wardrobe that I soon realise is actually a Vanishing Cabinet. The same Vanishing Cabinet Malfoy used last year to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

"Hello, Borgin," the leader says with a cruel smile. "How's business going?"

"Same as ever, ma'am, same as ever," Borgin says, sinking into a low bow, in a failed attempt to hide the fear and contempt on his face.

"That's what I like to hear," she drawls. "So I suppose we'll be taking our share of the profits now, won't we?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Borgin says immediately, hurrying over to the register. He shoots the group a nervous look, before saying, "But - but I  _was_ under the impression that in return you would be providing me with more Dark objects to sell."

"Were you now?" says a man with shoulder-length wavy hair and cold eyes, apparently the leader's right hand man. "Well, let me clarify things for you. In return for the money you give us, we keep you alive and in control of your shop. Is that not enough for you?"

It does not appear to be enough for Borgin, but he also seems to realise he has no chance of winning against twelve of them, so he just takes two handfuls of an assortment of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, placing it in a little sac, before handing it to the leader, carefully avoiding touching her, as though her touch might burn him. She smirks, both at the money she has been given and at his evident fear of her.

They turn to leave, and I'm just starting to think that we're in the clear, when the leader knocks into Hermione, who had been standing very, very still during the entire encounter. The leader looks as though she hadn't noticed Hermione until just now and is very unhappy about having to see her now.

"What do you want?" she snarls at her. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Hermione says immediately. "Nothing at all, I was just looking around when you came in, that's all - "

"Oh, sorry, were we disturbing you? Were we interrupting  _your_ day?" the leader scoffs. "You don't really look like you're looking around, do you, standing still like that. Something wrong with you or something?"

"There's nothing wrong," Hermione says, the slight tremor in her voice the only thing that disturbs her calm tone. "There's no problem here."

Somehow, that only seems to piss of the leader more. She takes a step forward, lowering her voice slowly and saying, "Oh, really? Is that so?"

"N-Now hold on, Adalina," Borgin says quickly, his eyes darting between Hermione and the leader, apparently called Adalina. "N-Now, business won't be very good is my customers are harmed, that can affect how much money you get each month, you know - "

"You shut your mouth," Adalina's right hand man snarls. "You think you're special to us? We could get rid of you in a heartbeat and set up the same deal with someone else here, someone who knows when to keep their mouth  _shut_. Say something again. I _d_ _are_ you."

Borgin does not dare oblige him.

Adalina seems more irritated than anything. She brings her gaze to Hermione and says, "What's your blood status?"

Immediately, my hand jumps to my wand in the pocket of my robes, bringing it out slowly and holding it at the ready. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Harry has done the same. We stand, watching the scene unfold with bated breath, waiting for the moment to strike.

"Mudblood, I bet," Greyback speaks up. "I can smell it on her."

Adalina raises a curious eyebrow, looking from Greyback to Hermione. "Fenrir here isn't often wrong about stuff like this, you know. Give us your name. Name and blood status, and be quick about it."

"I - I - I'm a half-blood," Hermione stutters, unfortunately very unconvincingly.

My heart drops; one look at Adalina tells me she hasn't bought it. Hermione is very carefully avoiding looking her straight in the face, but then Adalina grabs her chin roughly and forces her to look up. For a moment, they stand there in what is perhaps the most suspenseful silence I have ever been in, Adalina looking at her as though examining her, Hermione reluctantly, unwillingly looking back. And then the worst expression in the world crosses Adalina's face, worse than anger or irritation or blood-lust or anything.

Recognition.

Somehow, in spite of the lengths we went to to change Hermione's appearance, Adalina recognises her from the photographs detailing Hermione as  _dangerous Muggle-born fugitive, Hermione Granger, known to be aiding Harry Potter in acts of terror_.

"Wait... wait a minute, you're - "

Adalina does not have time to finish that sentence. As one, Harry and I have thrown the Cloak off ourselves and, pointing our wands at different targets, shout together, " _STUPEFY!_ "

Our spells hit our targets, the two of them crumpling to the floor. The group of Snatchers, Borgin, and Hermione all stand still in shock, but we don't give anyone time to recover.

" _REDUCTO!_ " I scream, pointing my wand at one of the glass display cases, just as Harry points his wand at one of the tables by the group and shouts, " _EXPULSO!_ "

Both the display case and the table explode in a swell of noise, and we only pause to throw up our arms and shelter ourselves from the raining debris. Once it has subsided, we both look and quickly assess the situation. A couple of the Snatchers are stumbling backwards, clutching onto their ears, having been extremely close to the two explosions. Borgin himself had collapsed, having been extremely close to the glass case, but none of the glass shards touched him, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest. He has only been knocked out. Hermione looks shocked but unharmed.

Unfortunately, so does Adalina, her right hand man, Greyback, and the majority of their number.

I grip onto Harry's free hand with my own so as not to lose him, raise my wand in the air, and shout, " _FUMERO!_ "

The world is soon surrounded in thick smoke. Clutching onto Harry's hand, I launch myself forward, calling out, "Hermione? Hermione!"

"I'm here! I'm here!"

We blindly follow the sound of Hermione's voice, though the Snatchers are blindly kicking and punching. Their blows connect a fair few times, but they're so confused and distracted that they're not as hard as they normally would be. Finally, I collide hard into someone, and I know from the gasp they let out that it's Hermione.

"Come on!" I say; she grabs onto my arm blindly, and the three of us stumble around blindly until we've finally found the door and fling ourselves out of it.

But the smoke inside is already clearing; I had been too panicked to cast the spell properly. Snatchers are already rushing after us, casting curses after us, and it's all we can do to avoid them and send a few back ourselves. We don't dare stop long enough to Disapparate, because if we stop long enough to do that, then it's long enough for a spell to finally hit us, for one or more of them to grab onto us and come right along with us. But we can't keep running forever, either.

And the very suddenly, it hits me. We can't get out of this one. We're too outnumbered, too unprepared, too at a damn loss. At the very least, one of us won't make it. Not unless on some impossible chance we beat them. And I find I'm not willing to risk Harry and Hermione's lives for that. For something that is on my shoulders and my shoulders alone.

My heart is in my mouth, pounding so rapidly it's as though I could cough it right up. The entire world seems to be spinning, the ground shaking because this is  _it_ , the worst case scenario that we'd always dreaded but never came until right now. My ears are ringing, getting progressively louder and louder as the fact of the matter gets more and more apparent. My lungs don't seem to be functioning the right way, the air not going in and out the way it normally does, and it sort of feels like I'm suffocating, because the entire world is closing in, and there's no way out. And through it all, all my mind is thinking one thing only, the thought startlingly clear in the midst of all this chaos.

 _I have to save Harry and Hermione_.

This is my fault. All of it, all my fault. They had no thought of going to Borgin and Burkes, absolutely none at all, until I'd come along and convinced them that for some reason, some insane, deluded reason, that it was a good idea. If not for me, they'd still be in the tent, not necessarily  _safe_ , but certainly not inches from being in the un-relinquishing clutches of these Snatchers. They would not be here, running after an interrupted attempt at a mission that had been for  _nothing_ , in the end, all of it for nothing. This is my responsibility. It ought to be me who pays for it.

 _I have to save Harry and Hermione_.

Hermione is Muggle-born. They'll show her no respect, no mercy, just pain and disrespect and eventually - my stomach swoops - death. They'd interrogate her for a time, but when they find out that not only is she an unregistered Muggle-born, but Hermione Granger, Muggle-born fugitive known to be aiding Harry Potter, she wouldn't stand a chance. They'll kill her. And Harry is  _Harry_. If they see that scar, they'll find a way to summon Voldemort, and then it'll all be over. If either or both of them gets taken, they'll both be dead within hours at the latest.

If I had eaten something today, I'd be throwing it up.

 _I have to save Harry and Hermione_.

I can't let that happen to them. I have the biggest chance of survival. I'm not Muggle-born, so while they're unlikely to treat me well, my blood status is likely to serve me in a way that it can't serve Hermione. And while I'm a fugitive as well, known to be aiding Harry Potter, I'm not Undesirable No. 1, so they won't have me killed right away. Maybe I'll be thrown somewhere in prison. Maybe I'll be interrogated somewhere, But I'll have some window of time before they try to kill me, some sort of chance, no matter how small.

 _I have to save Harry and Hermione_.

Besides, it doesn't take a genius to know that objectively, out of the three of us, I'm the expendable one. Harry is  _Harry_ , the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the very middle of this whole ordeal. He needs to stay alive and well. Hermione is the cleverest witch of our age. She is too brilliant, too clever, to be taken. Her brains will be needed to stop Voldemort. But what am I? Not clever enough, not necessary enough, not big enough or worth enough to be truly needed in this fight against Voldemort. In the end, they will survive and do fine enough without me, and they will be able to complete the mission regardless of my absence. Even without this extremely obvious fact, they don't deserve to be taken, tortured, killed by these people. They don't deserve something so horrible. and in the end,  _this is my fault_.

 _I have to save Harry and Hermione_ ,  _I have to save Ha_ _rry and Hermione_ ,  _I have to save Harry and Hermione_.

Very slowly, I stop running. My heart pounding so rapidly I'm certain it will burst, I slow to a job, and then a walk, and them I'm not moving at all.

"KEEP GOING!" I shout to them, loud enough to make it sound like I'm still behind them. "HURRY - I'M RIGHT BEHIND YOU - COME ON!"

I hear the Snatchers getting closer and closer, but they've stopped firing spells, apparently suspicious that I've suddenly stopped running. I don't stop encouraging Harry and Hermione. I raise my wand once more, but only use it to take off all the spells placed upon myself to disguise my appearance. Once they realise that it's  _Hazel Knight, blood-traitor fugitive on the run with Undesirable No. 1_ , they'll hopefully be so distracted they'll forget about the other two fugitives ahead.

By the time Harry and Hermione have stopped and turned back, the Snatchers have already reached me.

"HAZEL!" Hermione shrieks.

"HAZEL - NO - WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Harry yells at me, like he can't believe what he's seeing.

The Snatchers don't try and approach them, too focused on me, on surrounding me. I'm being pushed and prodded and punched and kicked at, but I manage to stay upright, keeping Harry and Hermione in my line of sight. The Snatchers are shouting, yelling about how  _it's her, it's the Knight girl, it's her_ , but I barely notice them. Struggling against the grip of all the Snatchers, I look at Harry and Hermione give them one order, the one that matters more than anything.

"GO!" I scream at the top of my lungs, but it comes out slightly hoarse, and I think a great deal of the smoke I produced before entered my lungs. "GO! GET OUT OF HERE! I'LL BE FINE - JUST GO!"

Harry and Hermione don't move. They don't have time to hesitate. It won't be long until the Snatchers make the connection and realise that it must be Harry Potter and Hermione Granger with me. Adalina had already recognised Hermione. It won't take her long to remember.

" _GO!_ "

And then they're really all on me, closing in so that I'm surrounding by other bodies. I'm being kicked and punched and even scratched, as though I'm still trying to fight against them, but I've gone rather limp now that I've gotten the message across. The sounds are a wall of noise, an actual physical thing, made of curse words and grunts and incantations that make cuts and bruises appear all over me and shouting ( _Some of it's coming from me,_ I think somewhere in the back of my mind,  _some of the shouting is from me. God, how am I barely aware of it?_ ), but even in the midst of it, the  _crack_ that signals Disapparaton is there, somehow the loudest noise of all. The Snatchers hear it too, and Adalina is yelling, "Oi, go check that out!" and hitting me harder, punishing me, because she realises what I've done, she realised I've distracted them from Harry and Hermione, but it doesn't matter, they're long gone.

Even as they regroup and the leader shouts that they're taking me away, even as they grip onto me somehow tighter to ensure I don't get away, even as the darkness of Apparation swallows me and the suffocation is worse than ever with all these people pressing into me in this impossibly tight space, I barely feel it. It's barely real, because all I can think is one thing.

_I've saved Harry and Hermione._


	23. Malfoy Manor

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Malfoy Manor**

 

When we have landed somewhere else, I hasten to take in where we are, drinking in what I can out of fear that if I don't, I won't be able to do it again any time soon. I deduce that we're in a meadow somewhere, due to the lack of trees and the wide empty space that seems to go on forever. It might be a beautiful place, except the clouds are an icy grey and the ground is covered with a thick layer of frost and a thicker layer of snow, so that the colours and the flowers that would make the place beautiful have been taken away by the winter. But then they're surrounding me again, closing in, bending down and blocking out the light, blocking out  _everything_ - 

"The Knight girl," Adalina drawls, stepping towards me. "That's who you are, aren't you? Running around the country and causing trouble for the Dark Lord, that's what you do, isn't it?"

I don't reply, squirming when they grab at me and trying to think. They don't have my wand yet, I managed to stuff it in the waistband of my jeans before they got to me. As long as they don't get to it, I might still have a chance. There's no way I'll be able to fight them all, there's still eight or nine of them left, but if I manage to catch them off guard... set off some sort of distraction... I might be able to get away.

But no such luck. Adalina demands for one of them to search me, and one of them steps forward, finding my wand, along with the Extendable Ears we had used, the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder I keep around, and the Decoy Detonators I'd been planning to use. My disappointment and rising panic is only helped by my relief that they didn't find my Cross of Elements, still hidden in my sock.

"Sneaky little girl, aren't you?" Adalina says, turning over the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder in her hands. "I expect you have to be, with that price on your head. It's a hefty thing, you know. They're willing to pay big money for you. Not as much as your friend, Potter, of course, you're not  _that_ valuable. Speaking of Potter, that was him you were with, wasn't it? And that girl - that was the Mudblood, Granger, I recognised her in Borgin and Burkes."

I say nothing to this, either, staring up at her resentfully. She kicks me hard in the knee, bringing me down to my knees, gasping in pain.

" _Answer me,_ " she says harshly.

"Don't you already  _know_?" I spit out, glowering at her.

Something about this apparently amuses her, because she smirks. "That was a nasty truck you pulled, distracting us from them like that. We could have been so much richer if we got them, too!"

"Shame," I say sarcastically. "Maybe next time you'll have to try making money some other insane way - like getting a job like a normal person."

"But this _is_ a job," Adalina says, with a sickly sweet smile that reminds me unpleasantly of Umbridge. "Blood-traitors like you just don't have the stomach for it."

"Enough talk," Fenrir Greyback growls, pushing himself to the front. "I have a debt to pay with her. Remember Hogwarts, girl? What I did to your little blood-traitor friend?"

"I remember," I say hatefully, wishing I had hurt him worse for what he had done to Bill. "I also remember knocking you into the dust for it."

"Only now you're complete outnumbered and without your little wand," Greyback says mockingly. "So what are you going to do now? Don't be stupid enough to think you could beat me with your bare hands."

"We were outnumbered last time," I snarl. "And we got you then."

"More like we no longer felt the need to entertain you," Greyback says, with a smile that's more baring his teeth than anything. "Since we had already killed Dumbledore."

"You mean  _Snape_ killed Dumbledore," I say. "I notice you taking credit when  _you_ would've never managed it."

He shrugs. "What does it matter? He's dead. And so will you, too, when I'm finished with you."

With that, he advances on me, but to my surprise, Adalina and her right hand man both move to stop him.

"Stop," the right hand man hisses. "She has value."

"She's wanted dead or alive," Greyback says. "I'd rather bring in her dead body - or, should I say, what's  _left_ of it."

"No," Adalina says commandingly. "She's closer to Potter than anyone else, she must know a lot. Any information we can get to the Dark Lord will get us even more money. Even if we don't have Potter and Granger, we can still get our money's worth with this one."

Greyback stares at me, anger and something that looks sickeningly like hunger in my eyes as he looks at me, so the right hand man says, "Look, the money we'll get if we get information out of her will make it worth it. If she doesn't talk and the Dark Lord has no use for her, then you can have her to yourself, but you need to wait."

Finally, Greyback steps away. "I get her when we're done."

"No one will stop you," Adalina reassures him, as I fight back the urge to throw up. Adalina turns back to me and takes a step forward. "So, you've been travelling around with Potter. What have you been doing? Just hiding away from the world? I don't think so; they told me the lot of you were brave."

"Brave, not stupid," I say, not looking at any of them. "We haven't been doing anything."

"How about you look at me when you say it, then?" Adalina says mockingly, forcing me to look up at her.

"We haven't been doing anything," I repeat, saying the words slowly, emphasising every word.

She punches me, and at the sharp pain that shoots through me and the crack when her fist connects with my nose, I know that it's broken. I let out a strangled cry of pain, biting my tongue as hard as I can to stop it.

"Liar," she hisses. "Now tell us the truth of I'll  _really_ hurt you."

"We're not doing anything," I say it again.

She points her wand at me and says, " _Crucio!_ "

Pain shoots through me, the feeling of a thousand white-hot knives stabbing me over and over, burning my skin, setting my very bones on fire. I bite down on my robes to muffle my shriek of pain, twitching and convulsing from it. My free hand reaches to grab onto something, but there is only snow, cold against my skin, yet I barely feel it. I grab onto a handful of it, trying to ground myself.

When she finally lifts the curse, I let out a gasp, as though she was suffocating me until this moment. The Snatchers are all laughing at me, the sound of their laughter low and cruel and menacing.

"Weak," she says cruelly. "No clue why the Dark Lord sees  _you_ as a threat. Still, I know you have more information. Where are they, then? Where did they go?"

"No clue," I spit out, and this time it's true. "Far, far away from you, though. You'll never get to them."

She kicks at me, her boot connecting with my face. I groan in pain, coughing and clutching at my cheek.

"Hurting me isn't going to make me change my mind," I tell her, but my voice isn't as strong as I'd like for it to be.

"Oh, really?" says the right hand man, stepping forward and raising his own wand.

With two sharp splashes of his wand, two cuts appear, one shallow on my forehead, the other from my left cheek down to my chin, a little deeper. I bite down on my lip to bite back my gasp of pain as blood flows slowly from the two cuts, turning my face towards the ground so that they don't see the pain on my face and wiping the blood with the back of my hand. The right hand man, though, won't have it, and grabs me by the scruff of his robes, forcing me up and to look at him. He punches me in the face, his fist connecting just under my eye. I can already feel the bruise forming.

"No, Liam, stop," Adalina says, forcing him back so that he falls back, and I stagger clumsily before managing to stay up, wiping the blood away again before it gets in my eyes. "Let me handle this."

I'm strangely surprised that the right hand man is named Liam. It seems such a mundane name for someone with such extraordinary levels of cruelty, not only towards me but doubtlessly countless others. Adalina, Fenrir Greyback, those are the sort of names you hear in books and stories, uncommon enough to match uncommon cruelty.

But then again, maybe it's not so uncommon. Maybe cruelty is now as common as anything, and I just refused to believe it. Just before he left, Ron had said that Remus was right, that I am just a naive little girl... and maybe it's true. Maybe I've been so determined to see the good in the world that I've blinded myself to the bad. Maybe I had been so convinced that the good in the world was the majority that I hadn't fully realised just how pervasive the bad is.

"She's never going to talk, she's too damn loyal to those friends of hers," Greyback says impatiently. "Let's save everybody's time and let me have at her."

"You might as well," I say, slightly tauntingly. "You'll never get anything out of me."

"No!" Adalina insists. "She has more value than that."

"There's no use killing ourselves over a blood-traitor that won't talk," says Liam. "She's not worth the few extra Galleons."

"We'll get more than a few extra Galleons if she leads us to Potter!" Adalina insists. "She doesn't seem frightened by what we're going to do, though. That's why she won't talk."

"I'll show her scared!" says a different Snatcher, pushing her way to the front and waving her wand in one harsh, violent stroke.

Blinding pain bursts through me from my face, and when I bring my hand up to my face where she hit me, I feel a large bruise already half formed, just under my eye and covering up the upper half of my cheek. I wince touching it even gently, and it's all I can do to keep my eyes from watering. I feel like an object among all of them, being watched expectantly, as though everyone's waiting for me to do the thing I was built for, being passed roughly around and poked and prodded until my performance is deemed satisfactory and I've served my apparent purpose.

The thought disgusts me. But what's more, it hardens my resolve. I bring my hand from my cheek, in spite of the stinging pain from the bruise, and straighten my posture, squaring my shoulders and holding my head high. I don't know what they're going to do to me, I don't know how this is going to end, but I do know that if I go down, I intend to go down with at least some dignity. If I die, I'd like for it to be on my own terms - or, at least, as close to my own terms as I can realistically get right now.

They seem to take it as a challenge.

"Oh, does the little girl think she's brave?" says the Snatcher who had caused the bruise to form, stepping forward. She punches me across the face, but I manage to dodge it this time, ducking, her fist missing my head by inches. Just as I straighten up, she sends another punch my way, and I stumble back from it, but my head is pounding and the world seems to be moving too fast and I've always been too damn clumsy, so I lose my balance, throwing my arms out in an attempt to regain it. Before I can, one of the Snatchers behind me kicks at the back of my knee, sending me falling forward onto my knees.

The Snatchers laugh again, but the look Adalina sends them silences them immediately. Their gaze is watchful as she kneels so that our faces are level, grabbing my face roughly and forcing me to look at her. She looks at me hatefully, but something tells me that she's getting increasingly more irritated at the whole situation.

She lets go and shoves me aside, straightening and saying, looking around at the group, "We'll take her to the Malfoys. They're rich enough to be able to give us our reward, anyway."

I stare up at her, stunned. "The - the Malfoys?"

She smirks at the look on my face. "Oh, now you're scared, girl? Just as well. People crack when they're frightened. It's what we've been waiting for. Hopefully the Malfoys will make you understand what you haven't seemed to realise yet."

"And what's that?" I ask resentfully.

She looks me dead in the eyes and says, "Nobody's coming to save you. D'you understand that? Nobody. Your little friends ran for their lives and Disapparated the moment they could, and they're not going to try and find you. You're on your own, little girl. You best realise that and smarten up, or the Malfoys will do something you really don't like." She turns back to the other Snatchers, as I scowl at her use of the term 'little girl' and try not to think too much on the truth of her words. "Nobody's got a problem with this, do they?"

Her eyes linger for a long time on Greyback. Nobody dares speak against her. No matter what they would rather do to me, they either respect or fear Adalina too much to go against her. From the fearful looks on their faces as they stare back at her, I'm guessing it's more the latter than the former. She grabs me by the scruff of my robes and forces me to my feet. It's only then that I spare a glance down at myself. My robes have been a little torn in places and are soaked through from the snow. It's only then that I realise how cold I am, shivering from head to toe, snow beginning to melt in my hair. Just as I take all of this in, Adalina twists on the spot and we Disapparate with a crack, the field disappearing.

While in the compressing space of Apparition, I wonder what would happen if I let go of Adalina and went somewhere else. But I dismiss the thought quickly. I still don't have my wand or anything else, and anyway, the chance of Splinching is too great. I might be able to handle something small happening to me, but due to the injuries I already have, if something serious happens, then I don't like my chances of turning out okay. In any case, where would I go? I have no way of finding Harry and Hermione. The thought of it makes me feel completely helpless, but I don't bring myself out of Adalina's grip.

Before I can sink too deeply into hopelessness, my feet land on hard ground again, and we're all in a country lane somewhere. A little ways' ahead, I see a pair of wrought-iron gates at the foot of what appears to be a very long drive. Adalina at the head of the group, still holding me by the scruff of my robes, moves forward, shoving me ahead to signal to move my feet. I don't have to turn around to know that the other Snatchers have their wands pointed at my back, daring me to try something. Even if I knew for sure which of the Snatchers has my stuff (I suspect it's Liam, though), if I even tried to get it back, I'd probably be hit with eight different curses before I could do anything. I walk forward silently.

We half in front of the gates. There's murmuring among the Snatchers, and even though Adalina hisses for them to shut up, there's uncertainty written all over her face, too. None of them seem to know how to get in, or even if they will be allowed access. I know this is likely a temporary problem, but I still allow myself to feel satisfaction at how lost they are. For all the Muggle-borns and supposed blood-traitors and outlaws they round up, they will always be on the outside, never truly be accepted by the master they try so hard to please.

If I didn't hate the lot of them, I'd feel quite bad for them.

Finally, Liam strides forward and begins shaking the gates. "How do we get in? What are we supposed to - what the hell?"

He has stepped back as though burned. It isn't all that difficult to see why. The iron is contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and coiling itself into a very frightening face, which speaks in a clanging, echoing voice. "State your purpose!"

"We - we have the Knight girl," Adalina says, her voice slightly hesitant before growing stronger. "Hazel Knight - the blood-traitor fugitive travelling with Potter!"

I think she mentioned Harry to sound important and relevant more than anything else, but the gates swing open regardless, so I suppose it works. Adalina leads the way forward again, shoving me once more, and we walk up the drive flanked by high hedges. I see a ghostly white shape above me and nearly jump (I only manage to stop myself out of a need to not seem weak in the midst of the Snatchers) but then realise it's only a white peacock. In spite of my fear, my pounding heart, the feeling that my entire world is crashing down around me, I find it in me to feel a stab of annoyance, and I nearly scoff. A white peacock. Of  _course_ the Malfoys would have one of those.

We reach a handsome, black manor house at the end of the drive, the diamond-paned downstairs windows glittering in the setting sun. We reach the door, and Adalina moves to knock, but before she can, the door opens just a crack, and a vaguely familiar man's voice speaks, saying, "W-What? What do you want?"

"We already said what we want," Adalina says. "And it's what you want, too. We have the Knight girl here. I know she's a little roughed up, but it is her."

The door opens a little wider, and I realise why I had recognised the voice. Peter Pettigrew is standing before me, short and stout and hair colourless, looking both shocked to see me and a little terrified. Maybe because I look like my mother... he knew her, didn't he?

"Y-Y-You're sure it's her? The punishment for all of us will be great if it's not."

"Very sure," Adalina says impatiently, giving Wormtail a look that suggests that she knows him and does not think he deserves the title of Death Eater more than she does. "Just let us in and see for yourself - and don't you think about taking that reward from us!"

"Fine, in, come in," Wormtail says, stepping aside and opening the door further to let us in. He looks like he doesn't want the entire group of Snatchers to come in, but then they're inside and he seems he'd rather not say anything about it.

The drawing room is, as the rest of the house that I have seen, large and sumptuously decorated. The room would have bathed in orange, golden, red light fro the sunset outside, but the curtains have been drawn so that the place is as dark as any other room in the house. My stomach drops when I see who is in the drawing room, apparently waiting, though I don't know what else I could have expected. There's Lucius Malfoy, tall and strikingly similar to his son, but he seems more ragged and paler than usual, There's Narcissa Malfoy, elegant and composed and with long, blonde hair. There's Bellatrix Lestrange, dark where her sister is fair, with spiralling black hair and an expression of cruel delight as she regards me. Draco Malfoy stands by his father, highlighting how similar they are to his father, but still a little off to the side, and his grey eyes seem more weary than anything as he looks at me.

Wormtail points at me with his silver hand, saying, "These - Snatchers - they've come claiming they have the Knight girl."

"We're not just claiming anything," Adalina says, though she looks directly at the Malfoys and Bellatrix as she speaks. "It is her!"

"Bring her in, bring her in, let's see," Lucius says, gesturing impatiently. "But if it isn't her, all of you will regret it."

Adalina drags me farther into the drawing room and throws me forward, forcing me onto my knees. I look down at the floor, scowling and trying to ignore the pain that seems to be everywhere on my face.

"Speak your name, girl," Lucius Malfoy says. "Identity yourself."

I say nothing. I know it's really only a matter of time before they identity me, but I stay silent, trying to buy myself to - to -

 _To do what?_ What can I possibly do? I'm unarmed and more outnumbered than ever. Not only that, but I'm in a room with five other Death Eaters, all of whom only need to touch the Mark on their forearm to summon more Death Eaters and even Voldemort himself. What can I do? What the hell could I possibly  _do?_ I'm trapped here. The only hope I have left is that I'll somehow live to see another day and think of some other way of escape. " _Nobody's coming to save you. D'you understand that? Nobody. Your little friends ran for their lives and Disapparated the moment they could, and they're not going to try and find you. You're on your own, little girl._ " The weight of those words hit me suddenly as though they're an actual, physical thing. It's all I can do to swallow down the bile rushing up my throat.

I feel a blunt blow to the back of my head and I have to throw my hands out to catch myself before I collapse in an undignified pile. Then Adalina's voice saying, "She's a difficult one, see, but it is her, it is the Knight girl -  _say it, you stupid bitch, tell them!_ "

"This seems a waste of our time," says a voice, and I look up to see Narcissa Malfoy raising her eyebrows as she looks at me disdainfully. "Then again, I don't know what I expected from this lot."

Adalina looks furious but seems to be trying her hardest to keep her cool. "This is really her, I'm telling you! Well, the boy can recognise her best, can't he?" she points out, nodding at Draco (even in the midst of all this, I don't really like being on a first name basis with him, but with three other Malfoys in the room, I have little choice). "They must've been school friends." She laughs a little at that, looking undisturbed that nobody else is. A good recovery, all in all. "Well, maybe not friends if they've ended up on opposite sides, but..."

Narcissa Malfoy merely spares Adalina a very distasteful glance, before looking at Draco with a softer expression. "Draco... can you recognise her? Go on."

Draco seems like he would rather do anything than  _go on_ , but with everyone gazing expectantly at him, he seems to realise he has little choice. Looking properly miserable about it, he trudges forward, kneeling down so that our faces are level and staring at me most reluctantly.

I avoid eye contact, but one tiny shared glance tells me more than enough. He knows it's me. He must have known from the moment we came in, and yet he remained silent - is still remaining silent, actually. Why hasn't he said anything yet?

He opens his mouth to speak, and I resign myself to the inevitable, but instead of confirming that yes, I am in fact Hazel Knight, he glances at the Snatchers almost warily and says, "What's wrong with her face?"

I stare at him, surprised. I am sure he recognised me from the moment I came in, yet he didn't speak up when everyone was debating whether it's really me. And now he has directly been asked to confirm it, yet he's unwilling to give a final answer. Why? I had thought he'd be rather eager to see me like this, humiliated and about to face the worst sort of treatment. After all, we'd never been friends - enemies, always enemies. Then again, were the roles reversed, would I be eager to see Malfoy in my position? No... I'd be horrified... I'd even try to help him, if I could...

I look at the hollowness in his grey eyes and realise he must have seen all sorts of horrible things now that he's become a Death Eater. He had always liked to talk big and boast about his greatness, but when it came to actions and proving himself, he had always come up short. He hates it, I realise. He hates it and he's scared but he has little other choice now. He doesn't like me, certainly won't try to help me, but he also isn't eager to see what his parents and aunt must have in store for me. Added with the fact that he knows me... even if we do hate each other, I suppose there is something strangely personal about all of this.

To my complete and utter surprise, Adalina flushes at Draco's comment. I suppose she really hadn't been suspecting anything but unfailing belief and gratitude from the moment we arrived and doesn't like that she's getting everything but that. "We questioned her a little before we brought her in. Tried roughing her up a bit to get her to talk, but the stubborn little bitch didn't say anything."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Do leave the interrogation to us. I assure you our methods are far more effective."

He waves his wand casually, and I feel momentarily relieved as my injuries heal themselves automatically, the dried blood and bruises disappearing, my broken nose righting itself. I don't dare feel relaxed or glad. He didn't do it for me. He did it so I would be easier to recognise me, and it works. Immediate recognition crosses the face of Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix.

"But that's her!" Bellatrix says eagerly. "From the Department of Mysteries, don't you remember, Lucius? The wicked little bitch, she caused so much trouble. Now she'll pay!"

"Yes, yes," Lucius is murmuring. "Even if I hadn't seen her, the resemblance to her mother is so uncanny I would think it was her if I didn't know the woman was dead."

"It is her," Narcissa agrees, with cool confidence. "Draco and I saw her just last year, her and her vile friends actually thought to attack us in Diagon Alley."

I don't make eye contact with any of them, but I don't flinch away from their gaze or hide my face. What would be the point? I had already outed myself to the Snatchers, refusing to answer the question is one thing, but denying it now would be plain stupid. In any case, the recognition had already made itself plain in their eyes, and on the off chance they did believe I was a fraud, what would that amount to? Certainly they would kill me, for the inconvenience of it all if nothing else. No, as Hazel Knight I had value. I stand the biggest chance if I am open in who I am.

"Have you searched her?" Bellatrix says with breathless excitement, her eyes alight with manic glee. "Was she carrying anything valuable with her?"

"Nah, just her wand and this stuff," Liam says, pulling out my wand, the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and the Decoy Detonators from the pocket of his robes. Once again, the feeling of my Cross of Elements in my sock becomes particularly pronounced, but they don't seem to have any intention of searching me again.

"Wormtail, take those things away," Bellatrix commands. "Take them to one of the closets, any old one."

"Bu-But - ma'am, we actually wanted - " Liam begins.

"Does it look like I  _care_ what you want?" Bellatrix says. "Don't think you have  _any_ place to contradict me. Wormtail,  _go_."

Wormtail hurries forward to grab the objects out of Liam's hands. Liam, looking very cross indeed, shoves the objects into Wormtail's hands.

"Well, what of the reward?" Adalina presses on. "Now that we all agree that is is her?"

"Yes, yes, we'll transfer the money into your vault in Gringotts," Lucius says impatiently. "However you decide to share it can be dealt with on your own."

Adalina seems satisfied by that. None of the other Snatchers seem to like that the money is going into her vault, but they all seem to know better than to say anything about it. An object with a price. That's all I am. An object with a price, and they'll want me to be worth the money.

Through all the panic, through the fear, through my mind whirling with escape plans, none of them efficient, I have one surprisingly clear thought:  _Fuck that._

It seems undeniable that they'll kill me before long. And when that happens, I'm going to make sure that they don't get a single damn thing that they want out of me. Either I escape, or they kill me feeling completely unsatisfied with the utter  _lack_ of information I gave.

"Go on, then," Bellatrix says. "You'll get your reward, now leave. We'll take care of her."

Greyback takes a step forward at that. "Actually, I would quite like to have - "

"We'll take care of her," Bellatrix says threateningly. "Leave. You're no longer invited here."

None of them seem to particularly like it, but they all turn and leave. Adalina gives me one last lingering look, triumph in her eyes, and Greyback gives me one of his own, hunger in his. I stare at them, stony faced, until they're gone from the drawing room once and for all. Once they're gone, I look at the Malfoys and Bellatrix. This is hardly a step up. Still, I swallow down on my fear as Bellatrix approaches, dangerously slow.

"How about we have a talk?" she says. "Girl to girl."

It's not much of a talk at all, since I refuse to speak, only talking when she uses the Imperius Curse on me and forces me to speak, and even then, I manage to fight it enough to only spit out a resentful 'I don't know.' Mostly, she tortures me, more out of revenge for the events at the Department of Mysteries than to get information out of me. Her methods range from the Cruciatus Curse to even worse ways, so that soon I'm seemingly sinking in the pain, drowning in it, wondering if I had ever felt anything but it. It feels like my bones are breaking again and again, my skin is searing with pain, as though I'm about to burn up and turn to ash once and for all, my head feels like it's about to burst from it all, my whole body is shaking so much I don't think I will ever be still again. I can't breathe, I can't think, I don't even know how I'm able to reply 'I don't know, I don't know, I'd never tell you, I'd never, ever tell you,' to her questions through it all. Even the tears that spring up seem to be conspiring against me to make the pain greater, stinging my eyes as I attempt to hold them back. Has there ever been anything but this? This pain, this all-consuming, never ending pain? Any other life that I might have had before seems so far away, so unattainable, it seems like some sort of cruel joke that I ever had it at all. Hogwarts, Quidditch, an impossible but wonderful world filled with spells and magical creatures, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Remus, George, Fred...  _Fred_... could that life ever have been mine?

At one point, she waves her wand violently and a deep gasp appears on my leg. The blood flows immediately, soaking through my jeans and my robes within seconds. I have to bite down on my lip so hard to muffle my screaming that I actually draw blood, but the pain in my leg, the pain seemingly everywhere else on my body, seems to take away from the pain at my lip. Somewhere, maybe a million miles away, somebody's voice - maybe Lucius' - is telling her to  _stop, Bella, stop, you're not getting anything out of her, this is useless, she's not going to talk now,_ but Bellatrix doesn't listen. She doesn't listen, she doesn't stop, until finally, finally she seems to understand that I'll never talk.

She takes a step back, examining me, and I think that this must be it, that she'll realise that it's useless trying anything, that she'll raise her wand and it'll be Avada Kedavra that leaves her mouth nothing else, but she simply says, "Draco, take her away. Don't put her in the dungeons, let's keep her separate from everyone else, or else I'm sure she'll find some way to get the others down there to escape. Put her in one of our separate rooms for  _special_ prisoners, make sure she's heavily guarded. Get up, blood-traitor. Maybe some time to yourself will make you come to your senses."

The act of getting up seems a nearly impossible one. My whole body is still shaking, my every nerve screaming in pain, wanting to stay on the floor and curl into a ball, shivering and weeping until it all goes away, the pain, the world, everything. My dignity, however, is not fond of this idea. So in spite of my staggering, in spite of the fact that my knees might give way at any moment, in spite of the fact that I can't remember the last time I felt this weak, I get to my feet, standing as straight as I can. I glance outside the window and see that the sun is past setting and it's well into the night now. Time flies when you're being tortured, I suppose.

I give each of them my most hateful look (difficult, through the lingering pain), and follow Draco, who seems unwilling to touch or even look at me, out of the drawing room. He leads me through dark corridors, only looking to make sure I haven't tried to sneak away (I don't see why he'd have to look, my footsteps are heavy due to the way I'm limping as a result from my injured leg). He leads me up one staircase, then another, then one more, before stopping at a door, doing a complicated wand movement (clearly  _Alohomora_ alone won't open it) that causes it to swing open. Wordlessly, he gestures for me to enter.

 _It's like we're strangers_ , I think, walking inside the room.

He slams the door shut the minute I've walked through it, through it's at least another minute before I hear his footsteps walking away. He must have put charms on it to ensure I can't leave. The room, a start contrast to the rest of the house, is very sparsely decorate. All there is is the bed, which looks extremely uncomfortable, and one portrait opposite the bed. Whoever usually occupies the portrait is gone, however, leaving only a murky backdrop. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wonder whose portrait it is, but I find that the greater part of me doesn't really care. I stumble onto the bed, collapsing onto it, finding that it is indeed as uncomfortable and hard as it looks.

Sighing, I struggled out of my jeans, before examining the deep cut on my thigh. There's not anything I can do to heal it; any spells I could've used are out of the question without a wand, and I don't know anything about first aid. Wincing from pain every time I move my leg, I tear out a large strip of fabric from my robe and cover the gash, figuring the best thing to do is stop the bleeding. Once finished that, I put my trousers back on and lie down on the bed.

So, they don't intend to kill me quite yet. Maybe they want to try and see if they can get information out of me a few more times before they do. No doubt more pain like this is in store, but more time to be interrogated is more time to think of an escape. It's the best I can ask for, really. It's better than what I expected.

Tears prick in my eyes again, but I wipe them back, angry with myself. Now isn't the time to cry. I need to be rational, I need to think, I need to be calm, I need, I need, I need... to think of a plan. But every plan I think of is soon cancelled out, soon shut down as impossible or irrational, and I can't help the wave of hopelessness that threatens to overwhelm me once again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a spider or two skitter into a dark, shadowy corner.

 _Ron would hate this place,_ I think suddenly, surprising myself. Then, at the absurdity of that thought, the unexpectedness of it, I start laughing. Soon I can't control myself, laughing uncontrollably, practically howling at something that isn't even all that funny. I don't stop laughing, though, until even that starts to hurt, and I stop very abruptly, suddenly fighting off the urge to cry.

I don't know if what I do next can be classified as falling asleep or just passing out from the pain of it all, but I do slip into unconsciousness regardless, my last though being the repeated question of how many more things will be tainted for me before this is all over.


	24. The Portrait

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Portrait**

 

They bring me back the next day, and then again and again and again. Each time goes the same as the first, Bellatrix trying to torture information out of me, occasionally resorting to physical violence instead of magical violence when she gets impatient with the lack of information I give. The pain never seems to stop, never lets up or gets better, nor so I really get used to it, but I become better at thinking through it, at becoming more than a shaking, screaming mess. Of course, I'm not much better, but I'm mostly of a sound mind, which is what matters most, I suppose.

I lose track of the days fairly quickly. I only last a few days, before I start arguing with myself over whether it's actually been four days or five, and then I give up altogether. The room they keep me in doesn't have any windows, perpetually dark, and they don't bring me up to be questioned at consistent times. Sometimes, when I look at the window of the drawing room, I see the watery light of dawn, the dark threatening to become overpowered by the light, but sometimes I see the bright light of early afternoon, or the swirl of colours indicating sunset, or the all-encompassing darkness of night. As much as I resent them for it, I have to admit it's smart on their part. Routine can be dangerous. If I can predict how each day is going to go, and if they begin to rely on that routine, I can easily use it against them in an escape plan. The more they keep me in the dark, the more ignorant I remain, and the more useless I become. It might be days that have passed by, or weeks, or more. In the end, I find that the time doesn't really matter to me.

At the end of each interrogation, I always expect Bellatrix to point her wand at me and  _end_ it, to decide I'm not worth the trouble, to just get it all over with and  _kill me_ , but she never does. Every single time, all she does is tell Draco to take me back to my cell, and every single time, Draco does that, refusing to even look at me longer than two seconds at a time. I suppose I should be grateful that I'm still alive, but I can't find it in myself to feel any sort of gratitude when I'm spending nearly every single waking moment in pain. Besides, I'm too busy wondering  _why_ they're keeping me alive to feel anything about it.

Not to mention, all I feel is frustrated with myself, because I should be using the time to come up with an escape plan, but I come up with nothing. I don't know the house at all, so if I tried to run, the most likely outcome is that I'd get hopelessly lost and embarrass myself in front of these people. Besides, the place is bound to be crawling with other Death Eaters, or house-elves who won't hesitate to turn me into their masters (not that I would blame them, either, because they would probably punish themselves if they didn't, and they must be having a miserable enough time with the Malfoys without me making it worse for them),  and what good would I be against them? I'm unarmed and I don't know where they put my stuff to be able to find it. If it really came down to it, I'm pretty sure I could take a house-elf in a fight, but it's not really a prospect I much like.

So here I stay, convincing myself that I'm simply biding my time but really just trying to stay alive, praying that if I do die, it won't be from any of my wounds getting infected. Bellatrix has added more large, deep cuts to join the one on my thigh. There's one that trails up the length of my right arm, stopping just below my shoulder; two long scars down my back, crossing each other to form an X on my back; and another across my collarbones, before curving up my neck, stopping just below my chin. Those are just the big ones, and the scars I'm not sure will ever really fade. My shirt and robes are ripped in several places where I had torn pieces of the fabric to use as makeshift bandages.

Bellatrix, however, is not the only one to torture me. Lucius also tries to torture the information out of me, but he doesn't do much better than Bellatrix. And, as I had expected, the place is crawling with Death Eaters. Some sit by and watch as they torture me, murmuring among themselves and mocking me, laughing, and sometimes they step forward and try to torture information out of me themselves. Draco never tries, just stands there and watches silently, almost fearfully, as though they're going to try and torture  _him_ next. In the end, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that they don't succeed. They don't succeed and they never will. I will make sure of that even if I die in the process.

I'm not sure why I'm surprised the first time they try using Legilimency to get the answers from me. Bellatrix is on top of me, pinning me down so I can't move (Where the hell did they think I would go? I think, slightly irritated), cutting my upper left arm in careful, small lines with a dagger, whispering the same questions over and over (" _Where is Potter? Why are you together? What are you doing? What are you hiding? Tell me, tell me, you filthy blood-traitor, tell me, tell me, TELL ME._ ") when suddenly she stops, putting away the dagger and pulling out her wand. I only expect one of the curses she has used before ( _Stupid,_ I think.  _That's a stupid thing to expect. They're relying on this, they want you to fall into a false sense of security, to believe that it can't possibly get worse, so that it hits you harder when you sink lower_ ), but instead she points her wand at me and says, a cruel smile twisting a face that might have once been wickedly beautiful, " _Legilimens!_ "

Memories flash through my mind. There's Privet drive, ordinary and mundane and never changing; Hogwarts, big and and beautiful and magical and impossible; the Burrow, a haphazard thing, definitely an unsteady place if not for magic, tall and wonderful the way Weasleys tend to be; Grimmauld Place, grim and dark and foreboding; the tent we've been staying in, with its cat smell and the nearly constant tense atmosphere and - and -

The anger that takes over my body is so great that it nearly surprises me more than the fact that they've used Legilimency, that it actually makes me forget the pain for a moment. They can torture me all they want physically, they can rip me to shreds and and put me back together just to do it again, they can do whatever they want to my body, but they cannot do anything to my mind. My mind is the one thing they're not allowed to have, the one thing they're not allowed to take advantage of, the one thing they're not allowed to taint and damage and ruin. My mind is mine and no one else's.

As best as I can, I turn my rage into determination, into concentration. I focus everything I have into putting what I had learned about Occlumency into practice. " _Clear your mind, empty it of thoughts, empty it of emotions, empty it of memories, of everything your opponent can use to harm you._ " So that's what I do, that's all that I do, pushing Bellatrix out of my mind, away from me, away from the one place that she can never go, though it feels like my head might burst. I push her away, away, away.

It works a little too well. She leaves my mind abruptly, as though jerked away by some giant hook. As the pressure in my head leaves, so does the weight on top of me. My eyes fly open (how long had they been closed?), to see that apparently I had been so caught up in pushing her away mentally, that I had done so physically, as well. Bellatrix lies a little away from me, sprawled on the floor, looking more stunned than hurt, which I'm simultaneously disappointed and relieved about; disappointed, because I've spent so long wanting to make her feel at least a fraction of the pain she has put me through; and relief, because my punishment for it might not be so bad if she hasn't actually been hurt.

Bellatrix scrambles to her feet, seeming more embarrassed to have been bested by me in such a weak state more than anything else. "You - you dare harm me, blood-traitor? Useless,  _insolent_ little girl. You should be kissing the ground I walk on!"

 _Because that'll happen_ , I think through the thick haze of my mind, still recovering from the assault on it.

She points her wand at me, cold fury written all over her face, and makes an angry slashing movement with it. Instantly, a large cut appears on my stomach, and it's only then that the feeling of all the pain comes back to me. Returning to that pain after forgetting it in my anger, in the adrenaline, is like spending several hours in ice cold water, getting a moment of reprieve, then being shoved right back in. You'd think you would be used to it, but you're not. You never really can be. I let out a hiss of pain, trying to use my hands to stop the bleeding, but it slips through the cracks of my fingers, coating my hands in blood. I can already tell that it will leave a nasty scar. The kind that won't ever fade, along with the others.

Bellatrix looks at me hatefully, before turning to Narcissa and saying, "Cissy, you try her."

Narcissa steps forward slowly, gazing at me thoughtfully as she draws her wand, turning it over carefully in her fingers. When she stands before me, she is still and silent for a moment, simply watching me. Her eyes bore into mine in a way that makes me feel like she's already invading my mind. It reminds me unpleasantly of Snape.

" _Legilimens!_ "

She's better at it than her sister, that much is clear. Much better than her sister, in fact. It's harder to fight her off, to block my mind from her, and the pain in my stomach, the pain seemingly everywhere, doesn't help. I have to imagine a wall between her and my mind, so tall it touches the clouds and goes even further, stretching on in all directions forever and ever, made of steel, impenetrable. Nobody can enter it unless I want them to enter.  _Nobody_. Certainly not Bellatrix or Narcissa. In the end, the walls helps me win out against her. The pressure lifts, and she is gone from my mind, having found nothing of use. The wall has served its purpose; she couldn't get past it.

And she never will. Nobody ever will. My mind is  _mine_. I almost smile, thinking about it, in spite of everything.

Bellatrix looks down at me with fury, hatred, annoyance all burning in her eyes. I would like to be on my feet, or at least sitting up, so I don't feel so  _beneath_ her, but I know from experience I'll just be pushed back down. It's better to lie on the ground, make them think that I have given up, that they have broken me completely, than to continue to be pushed until they finally have. One thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: the one thing I need more than anything to survive here is my will, my determination, my strength (mentally, if not physically). If they break me then I am as good as dead. If they break me, then I'm frightened of what will happen to Harry and Hermione, to the other members of the Order wherever they are.

At the look on her face, I think that this must be it. I think that she will finally decide she has had enough, that she is tired of me and the effort being wasted on me. That she will finally kill me and end this. Instead, she just says, still glowering, "Draco, take her away."

And in that moment, it becomes clear. It all makes sense. The reason why she won't kill me, even after every interrogation where I refuse to talk in spite of the pain she and the others put me through each time. The reason why I'm still alive. I remember how Adalina (God, how long had it been since Harry, Hermione, and I had had the pure misfortune to come across her? It feels like years, centuries, even) had refused to kill me, even when all the other Snatchers had seemed keen to do it. " _She has value._ "

The information I have on Harry. That's what they want. And they want it so badly they're willing to keep me alive, to continue to spend time trying to torture it out of me. And they will keep doing it, either until I stop being worth the information I hold or until I crack and tell them everything. The moment either of these two things happen, I'm dead. They'll kill me.

"Guess I won't be kissing the ground you walk on today,  _Bella_ ," I hiss at her.

Furious, she stomps her foot on my stomach, directly over the cut she had created. I let out a strangled cry of pain, clutching onto my stomach, feeling like I'm suffocating for a moment. Bellatrix moves away, regarding me with savage triumph, satisfied to be getting some of her former power back. But my comment serves its purpose. I had only been testing the waters. She won't kill me until she gets what she truly wants out of me. None of the will.

"Draco, take her away," Bellatrix says breathlessly. " _Now_. I don't want her in my sight."

 _I don't particularly like looking at you, either,_ I think, struggling to my feet and staggering after Draco, who is walking rather fast, as though he wants to run away from me, keeping my hands on my stomach, trying to control the bleeding. Again, he silently opens the door and waits for me to enter it, closing the door when I do. Again, there's the pause as he puts on enchantments to keep me from leaving, and again, there's the sound of his footsteps walking away.

 _Jesus Christ,_ I think, standing against the door and listening to his fading footsteps.  _I almost miss his shitty fucking insults._

I wipe some of the blood on my jeans and run a hand through my hair, ragged and knotted and dirty. I'm ever so graciously allowed one shower per week, and I can't remember the last time I've felt so filthy, in more ways than one. I want to take a thousand showers, I want to scrub myself raw until any traces of this horrible place, these horrible people are gone once and for all. That's not the sort of goal you can achieve with one ten minute shower per week.

I sit on the edge of the bed, tearing at the fabric of my robes and pulling up my shirt, using the strip of fabric to cover up the new wound on my stomach. My clothes are all in tatters and streaked with old, dried blood, but they remain to be the best that I have.

"I would tell you that you are doing it all wrong, but I suppose you are not in a position to practice proper first aid."

I practically fly off the bed, ignoring the pain and looking around wildly, until my eyes settle on the source of the noise. The portrait that has remained unoccupied the entire time I have been here, no matter how long that actually is, has now been filled. Phineas Nigellus sits, staring at me with the haughty features of a Black, an eyebrow raised at my reaction.

"No need for that. I have been here for several minutes. Also, I have visited on countless other occasions, but unfortunately you have been asleep at those times. You're ever poorer company unconscious, I must say."

"You - it's you in there? That's your portrait?" I say incredulously. "Why are you bloody  _everywhere?_ "

"I suppose others recognise how important of a man I am," Phineas Nigellus says.

"You do realise I'm a prisoner, right?" I say warily, sitting back down on the bed and finishing in wrapping my makeshift bandage around the wound. "They're keeping you where they keep prisoners. That doesn't really sound like a place of honour."

"You can belittle me when you have portraits of your own hung in places, Knight," Sir Phineas says coldly.

I roll my eyes at him - until I remember something. "Wait - Harry and Hermione have one of your other portraits."

"So they do," he agrees.

"Are you going to tell them that I'm here?" I demand, my heart pounding.

"I don't quite feel the need to do so," Phineas replies. "If they ask, I might, but if they don't... well, that's their own fault."

I take that in, relief sinking through me. I don't want them to know where I am. If they know, they might try to save me, and if they try to save me, they're doomed. It's plain as day to me that it will not end well, and I don't want them hurt or worse because of me.

But I know if Sir Phineas knows that I don't want them to know, then he might just tell them to spite me, so I just say, "Fine, then."

Sir Phineas looks at me suspiciously, but then simply says, "You have found yourself in quite the predicament, haven't you? Truthfully, I don't even know why I am surprised. This is exactly the sort of situation you would wind up in, that much has been clear from the moment we first met."

"Good to know," I say in annoyance, choosing not to think on the truth in his words.

"Really," he continues, apparently opting to ignore me, "how exactly do you intend on getting yourself out of this one?"

I stare at him at that, an idea forming in my mind slowly. They will keep me here, alive, until either I crack and tell them what I know or until I stop being worth the information I have. All I need is to make sure I don't crack and find some way to escape before the latter can happen... and maybe he can help... it's clear I can't do this by myself, all I need is to find a way to convince him...

"You liked Dumbledore, didn't you?" I say suddenly, phrasing my words carefully.

"Well enough," he replies, narrowing his eyes at me. "Why?"

"Well... he wanted me alive," I say. "He wanted me alive and with Harry. I'm not with Harry, and in time, I reckon I won't be alive, either."

"Fascinating," Phineas Nigellus says, rolling his eyes. "I can see why so many are captivated by you."

"Look, Dumbledore... trust me when I say Dumbledore didn't want or plan for any of this to happen," I say. "And he would really want me to get out of here and - "

"If this is your pathetic attempt to get me to help you escape, then you might as well stop now," Sir Phineas says bluntly. "It is true I respected and even liked Dumbledore, but my respect, my loyalty, or my affection to him are not so great that I will help any silly little girl who is stupid enough to get caught and made a prisoner."

"It's not just that! I'm not some silly little girl!" I say furiously.

"Really?" he says disbelievingly. "Enlighten me, then, what are you?"

I don't reply to that, because I don't know what to say. Isn't one of the reasons that I allowed myself to get caught instead of risking Harry and Hermione being captured that I'm not all that important? That, in the end, all I really am is just some girl, unneeded, expendable?

He sees it in my face that he's right. "Exactly. I see no reason to spend time or compromise myself to help you."

"Is it not enough to know that you've saved somebody's life?" I say hotly.

He stares at me.

"Never mind!" I say, throwing my hands in the air in exasperation, forcing myself not to wince in pain in front of him. "Bloody fucking hell, you're awful!"

"Has it really become commonplace for women to swear so much, or is it just you?" he asks, looking interested. Before I can reply furiously to that, he says, "In any case, I suggest you stop pretending you aren't in pain. I've seen you shaking and crying when you sleep or when you think you are alone. It's useless in front of me."

"Of course you have! Foul, wicked piece of - " I begin angrily, especially angry at the fact that he said I was crying, when I hardly consider it as such. It's a physical reaction to the pain, something I hardly think about or control, not crying in the usual sense, where you stop being able to help it and you let go of yourself and you sit there and sob. Tears falling from my eyes somehow feels different from actually  _crying_.

"Such excellent tactics you use to convince me," Phineas Nigellus says sarcastically. "What will you try next?"

"Shut up," I say, turning away from him and stretching out on the hard, uncomfortable bed. "If you're not going to be useful, just shut the hell up."

"How the youth will never cease to astound me with their lack of manners - " he begins.

"Shut up!" I burst our furiously. "If you're not going to help, just shut up before I get up and smash your precious portrait to pieces!"

He doesn't seem to like being talked to in such a way, but he also seems to realise that I'm not bluffing in any way. To my surprise and disappointment, he doesn't leave, instead choosing to remain. He murmurs things to himself that I can't quite make out, but I don't bother myself with it, since it's easy to ignore.

What could be minutes or hours later, I hear footsteps approaching. I leap to my feet as the door opens. No matter the reason for coming in here, I always like to be on my feet for when they come in. It's merely Wormtail, though, delivering one of my meals. The food they give me isn't too great, either. It's a goblet of water and some lumpy, grey slop I'm not sure can really be classified as food. What really surprises me is that walking in behind him is Draco.

He looks as uncomfortable as ever to see me, even more so than Wormtail. He doesn't say anything, waiting for Wormtail to place the food before me and scurry out of the room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't say anything as Wormtail's quick footsteps fade into nothingness, and doesn't say anything as I stare at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. I won't eat the food in front of him. I won't lower myself to that in front of him.

"Hello, Draco," I finally say serenely, when he says nothing still. "I was wondering if you were going to visit me - well, I was actually wondering  _when_ you were going to visit me, but  _if_ sounds more modest, so," I shrug.

"Draco?" he says, looking at me suspiciously. "Since when do you call me Draco?"

"After everything that's happened that's really all you have to say to me?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "But to answer your question, it's since I ended up stuck in a house with three of your lot. Two too many, if you ask me, God knows I can barely handle one of you at a time, but here I am, so now you're Draco."

He says nothing to this, looking at a spot on the wall above my head. I narrow my eyes at him, a smile playing across my lips.

"You spent so much time trying to make me miserable at Hogwarts, and now you can't even look at me?" I say. "Come on, now, Draco, I know I'm not at my best, but I can't look  _that_ bad."

Finally, he looks down at me. He looks as uncomfortable as ever, but now he also looks rather annoyed.

"You're taking the piss out of me," he says. "You're  _our_ prisoner, I could kill you at any second, and  _you're_ taking the piss out of me?"

"It certainly seems that way. Kill me, then, Draco, I dare you," I say boredly, not only because I know he won't, but because this is easy. This is what I had done for six years at Hogwarts. This is what almost makes me feel like my old self. Is it petty and possibly straight up pathetic? Most likely. But I don't have much else.

"Do you - do you not understand where you are? Who we are? What we can do to you? What we  _have_ done to you?" he demands, looking disbelieving.

"Of course I bloody understand these things," I snap. "I'm not an idiot, thanks. Here's what  _you_ don't understand: your obvious discomfort around me is my only source of entertainment around here, and I do need some entertainment every now and then, you know. Keeps me from losing my mind from all the torture sessions and everything," I continue, tapping my temple with my index finger. "And I really need to make sure I don't lose my mind, don't I, because the minute I lose my mind is the minute I lose my usefulness to you and all your Death Eater pals, and the minute I outlive my usefulness is the minute one of you lot points a wand at me and says  _Avada Kedavra_ instead of  _Crucio_ \- except they wouldn't even just use the Killing Curse, would they, because they'd draw it out and make it as painful as possible. I know this because, contrary to what you clearly believe, I understand where I am, who you lot are, and what you can do to me.

"So, yeah, I'm going to try to keep from losing my mind in her, and if that means taking the piss out of you or anybody in this damn house, then I'm going to fucking do it. Basically," I finish off, smiling sarcastically, "what I'm trying to say is  _get used to it._ "

"No, you don't understand! You don't understand at all! You never change, do you? You're always going to be so stupid, you're always going to be on the wrong side of things? Don't you realise what they're going to do if you don't cooperate? You'll be done for, don't you  _get it?_ Of course you don't. You and all your stupid friends, you've never understood any of it!" It's a torrent of angry words, bursting from his mouth. I don't even think he really realises what he's saying. "Well, maybe when you finally go too fucking far with everything you do, you'll understand. Maybe when it's too damn late, you'll understand how much of an  _idiot_ you've been, and then there'll be nothing for it, and you'll be dead, all because you couldn't use some common sense! Is that what you want?"

Somewhere in the midst of this tangent, he has moved back towards the door. He flings it open, but stops to look at me one last time.

"Just give them what they want," he snarls, but it is clear that any real anger has left him. "Just grit your teeth and do it and stop being so fucking idiotic, Knight. Look around! No one is coming to save you. Look after your own stupid skin instead of those of the people who already abandoned you!"

With that, he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him. There's a pause, where he is clearly putting the enchantments back on, and then I can hear his footsteps storming away.

"He is right, you know," says Phineas Nigellus, no doubt having eavesdropped on the whole conversation, but I hardly hear him.

I hadn't thought Draco would even attempt to help me. I realise now, though, that him screaming about all the mistakes I've made, him screaming at me to just  _give in_ was, to him, the best form of help he could give.


	25. The Dark Lord

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: The Dark Lord**

 

Time passes, though I'm not really sure how much. Every day - or, at least, I think it's every day - they bring me up and torture me, trying to get the information out of me, and every day, I make sure they get nothing. They only try using Legilimency a few more times, and each time, in spite of the splitting headache it gives me, I manage to stop them from invading my mind. Imagining the wall usually works.

Along with the enchantments they have put on the room, they also position two Dementors at either side of the door. They may not be in the room, but I can feel them, the room even darker than it usually, is, feelings of misery and hopelessness filling me up. Apparently, they don't have any orders to suck out my soul, but that doesn't put me at ease. I never sleep for longer than five minutes at a time. I'm too frightened of what they will do if I let my guard down for too long.

Phineas Nigellus drops by a few more times. Each time, I ask for him to help me escape. Each time, he declines, also managing to annoy the hell out of me in the process. Usually, it ends in me hurling insults at him (as one of the few people I can do that to without serious consequence) and him muttering why I am supposedly the  _exact reason_ why he has stopped believing in young people.

I don't really get much of a chance to look at myself, but from the brief glimpses I can catch of myself, I know I look awful. I have always been skinny for my age, but I have lost even more weight. I haven't been this underweight since I was nine, after I had blown up that window and my uncle had limited my meals to one per day for nearly three months. A lot of my clothes, having belonged to Candy before, have always been too big for me, but now they hang from my frame. The cut on my stomach has sealed into a scar in the shape of a crescent moon, covering half of my stomach, and I can tell it's like the other big ones, the ones that won't fade. Besides the big scars on my thigh, stomach, back, arm, and collarbones, my body is covered in little, more harmless scars and bruises. My hair is a long, dirty mess of knots and tangles that I suspect would take hours to fix up if not for magic.

The most worrying thing of all, though, is that a streak of my hair has gone white, wispy and dead-looking. I remember visiting St. Mungo's a few years ago; and seeing Neville's mum, who had been tortured into insanity. Her hair had been the same way... I had always thought it might have been from ageing, but now I'm seeing that it was a result of being tortured so badly. They had tortured her and Frank Longbottom to insanity, and if my hair is any indication, I'm going the same way.

They can't succeed. I have to get out of here before they succeed. But how? I know I can't do this alone, and Phineas Nigellus has refused to help me. Who else do I have? How can I escape a place I don't even know without any help?

I'm thinking this over, when I hear the doorknob turning. I had been too lost in my thoughts to notice the approaching footsteps. Cursing myself for this, I leap to my feet just as Draco enters the room. As usual, he doesn't look at me. He hasn't spoken a word to me since what he had said to me the other day (or was it the other week?). He has hardly even looked at me. Occasionally I taunt him, but he never replies, and I never really bother with him too much. He's far from my biggest problem.

Wordlessly, I follow him out the door, past the Dementors, and to the drawing room. I'm surprised, though, when we're just outside the drawing room and I don't find the hallway empty. Instead, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Lucius are all outside the door, watching us expectantly. I stop, looking around at them suspiciously when they make no moves to enter the room.

"He wished to see you alone," Bellatrix hisses at me, and looks annoyed about it. "Go. Don't keep him waiting."

I don't ask who this  _him_ is supposed to be. I know they won't answer. They don't want me to be prepared. They never want me to be prepared. Besides, I think I know. The fear, the dread that's spreading through me, my heart pounding wildly in my chest doesn't help, either. I take a deep breath, straightening my posture, squaring my shoulders, raising my chin, steeling myself. Then, as calmly as I can manage, I march into the drawing room.

My suspicions are confirmed when I walk in, my heart dropping ad my stomach swooping unpleasantly. There he stands, tall, thin, deathly pale, with snake-like slits for a nose and horrible, horrible red eyes.

Lord Voldemort.

I swallow down the bile that rushes up my throat, the fear, the anxiety. I swallow it all down as I stare him straight in the face, but my heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst, my hands are balled up in such tight fists to keep from shaking that I draw blood from y nails, and I have to concentrate, seemingly harder than I've ever concentrated on anything, just to keep my breathing steady.

He stares at me expectantly, as though waiting for me to do something impressive.

Finally, I look at the man who killed my parents, who has killed countless innocent people, who is the cause for all this death and destruction, and say, my voice shaking too much for my liking, "If you expect me to bow or curtsy, then you're going to be very disappointed."

For a split second, I think he's going to be angry at me. Then a cruel, twisted smile crosses his face. He's amused by me. I'm a thing to him, a mildly interesting, amusing thing that he's happened to stumble upon.

"It seems you are your parents' daughter after all," he says softly. "A pity, truly..."

"Don't you dare talk about them," I fire back, with fury that surprises me.

"Naturally, you are angry," Voldemort says, undisturbed by my words. "But I was told you were intelligent, surely you understand why it had to be done. They were in my way, becoming nuisances... I offer so many opportunities for mercy. If they had listened, they would still be here, and you may not have been in this room today. But I am not here to speak of Brandon and Jasmine Knight, No, I have much more important matters to discuss."

I'm silent, shaking, though I don't know whether it's from fear or anger.

"Now, let's no act as though we don't know exactly what those matters are," Voldemort says, stepping forwards, and I will myself to stand my ground. "You and Harry Potter... you have such a close bond. Best friends since childhood... he thinks about you constantly, he worries. He thinks he hides it from me, but I see it all in his head so clearly... your disappearance has brought him such grief."

I think about Harry jolting awake after seeing through Voldemort's eyes, I think about Hermione scolding at him and begging him, screaming at him to try harder to block Voldemort from his mind. I knew, I had always known that Voldemort could use the connection just as Harry could, but it never truly registered in my mind until now... he has seen Harry thinking, worrying about me. What else has he seen?

But then I reassure myself that whatever he knows, it can't be much. If it was, he would know what Harry had been doing, he would know what our mission is. He would have no reason to interrogate me, the Malfoys would have no reason to keep me imprisoned. If he knew a lot, I would be dead by now.

"I offer you a chance at mercy, Hazel Knight, just as I offered your parents. You have suffered in your life... you need not suffer anymore."

I say nothing still. It occurs to me that he might be searching my mind, even as he speaks. I think back to what I had learned in all the books about Occlumency I had read.

 _Empty your mind, empty your mind, empty your mind_ , I tell myself, chanting it mentally.

"Where is Harry Potter located?" Voldemort asks.

Again, I say nothing. Voldemort looks irritated now. He flicks his wand, once, and I feel a sharp pain in my chest, as though someone has just stabbed me in the heart with a newly sharpened knife. I clutch onto my chest, gasping in pain, but when I remove my hand, looking down at my hands, then my shirt, which is already stained and bloodied, I find no new blood. No, this is only the  _feeling_ of being stabbed, but it is just as painful. I stumble backwards, hissing in pain, before dropping to my knees.

My hands leave my chest again, clutching onto the floor beneath me, and I expect to see blood dripping onto it, but nothing happens. Suddenly, the pain is lifted, and my posture slumps. I gasp for breath, trying to regain control, before raising my head to look at Voldemort. He looks bored.

More out of spite than anything, I lift myself slowly from the ground. I stagger slightly, but I plant my feet firmly on the ground and stare at him in determination.

"Is that all you can do?" I spit, probably the last thing I should be saying.

"There is no need to inflict too much pain upon you," Voldemort replies. "I should like for you to be coherent when you finally answer my questions. I shall ask again: where is Harry Potter located?"

I consider staying silent for longer. Then I realise I must speak, because if I don't it's likely that Voldemort will use the Imperius Curse on me in an attempt to force me to speak. I might have a chance in fighting it, but I refuse to give up any control of myself that I might still have.

"I don't know," I say, which is true. I'm not entirely sure how much time has passed since I was taken, but it's clear it's been a fairly long time. Unless Harry and Hermione lost all sense after my departure, they have been moving around the country, never staying in a location longer than a day. They could be anywhere.

Voldemort, who does not know any of this, does not believe me. Another flick of his wand, and I know it's the Cruciatus Curse. I try to stay on my feet, but even after all this time, the pain has not lessened, I have not become accustomed to it, because it is a pain so severe that a person can never truly get used to it. I drop to the floor, my whole body twitching and convulsing as I bite down on the sleeve of my tattered robe to muffle my screams.

When the pain lifts, I breathe in long, shuddering gasps of air, as though this is my last opportunity to breathe before I'm plunged into the sea, dark and never ending. I can hear his footsteps on the polished wood, and soon he is hovering right above me. I choke back tears with difficulty. He kicks me in the side, and I bite down on my lip to muffle my cry of pain. I know he means for me to get to my feet, so feeling as though I am attempting to use a body that is not truly my own, I get to my feet, my legs shaking as I put my weight on them unsteadily.

"This does not need to be difficult," Voldemort tells me. "I require only information out of you. Don't be like your silly parents. Be wise. Tell me what Potter is trying to accomplish."

"I don't know," I choke out again.

Another wave of his wand, this time more violent, and I can't even fight to stand up this time. I drop to the floor, screaming in pain as it feels like every one of my wounds is being ripped open, but when no blood pools around the floor, I know it's another illusion. If only that made it hurt less.

When the pain stops, I let out a shuddering gasp. I drag my hand up to my face and quickly wipe away the tears before they can escape. Voldemort kicks me over so that I'm on my stomach. He does not force me to get back to my feet, and I try to gather my energy, my strength, trying to find some way to defend myself - but what chance do I have without my wand?

Memories, out of nowhere, flash through my mind. The wedding, Godric's Hollow, breaking into the Ministry, the Death Eaters finding us at the café, moving from place to place, Fred's face as I broke up with him... I realise that he's using Legilimency. Voldemort is trying to read through my thoughts, find out any information he can.

Voldemort is even harder to block out than Bellatrix and Narcissa. I have to focus all my energy on clearing my mind, on focusing only on the situation I'm in right now. My head's pounding, it feels like I'm being suffocated... I force myself to think on all the things I can physically see and feel here... I can feel the polished wooden floor beneath me, can see the smooth black granite ceiling above, can see the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, can see Voldemort staring at me, his face cruel and twisted.

And then it all stops, and I let out a breath at the feeling of a weight being lifted from me. The effort of that alone drains me almost completely, and bizarrely, somewhere in the back of my mind I think we should all cut Harry some slack, if this is what he's dealing with everyday.

"Pity, pity," Voldemort says softly, standing right over me. "You could have been great."

And then everything goes black.

 

When I wake up, my eyes still closed, taking in as much as I can without revealing that I'm awake, the first thing I take note of is that I'm hanging in the air. I must be suspended upside down, too, because blood is rushing to my head. There's shuffling noises, muttering on all sides, meaning I have more company than just Voldemort now. Death Eaters or Snatchers, surely.

I try to move slightly, but I can't. My eyes fly open at the realisation, alarm surging through me. My guess was right, and there is a circle of Death Eaters all around me, but I only barely notice them. I struggle desperately, trying to move some part of my body, but my muscles don't obey me. It's like I've been bound tightly to some invisible object.

Then Voldemort's in front of me, walking towards me, and I force myself to relax my breathing.

"Knight," Voldemort says, with a cruel smile. "I see you've awoken at last. We were worried you would make us wait long."

I say nothing. I just stare at him with as much hatred as I can muster.

"I thought your tongue might loosen before an audience," Voldemort says, with a sweeping gesture around the circle of Death Eaters, and there's a ripple of laughter and muttering voices. He holds up a hand, though, and they all stop talking immediately. "What is Potter doing?"

"I don't know," I say.

" _Crucio!_ " he says in reaction, and I scream in pain, and I would be writhing and twitching, but I can't move. I struggle harder than ever, but it's no good, and with no way of muffling it, I scream loudly. When it ends, I shudder violently. "What foolish mission is Potter attempting to accomplish?"

"I don't know," I rasp.

He does it again, and tears leak out of my eyes as I scream in pain. A thousand white hot knives stabbing me over and over again, it never stops, the pain will never stop - 

"Where is he?" Voldemort hisses, impatient. "Where is the boy?"

"I - don't - know," I say, with as much venom as I can muster. "And even if I did I'm never telling you."

He waves his wand aggressively, and pain surpassing that of the Cruciatus Curse surges through me. It's like every scar, every wound that they've inflicted upon me is opening again, forcing me to relive the pain of every single one all at once. When I feel no blood on me, I know it's another illusion, but it makes it no less painful. I scream and scream and scream until my voice is hoarse, and still I scream, until he lifts the spell and I can breathe again.

"Hazel Knight," Voldemort says, stepping forward and forcing me to look at him. "You look just like your mother. I'm told you have your father's smile," he sneers as he says it, and there's another chorus of laughter fro the circle of Death Eaters, who I had almost forgotten. "How tragic."

"I'm told you looked just like your father, too," I fire at him. "You know, the  _Muggle_ your mother fell in love with - "

He punches me then, right in the jaw, which surprises me more than anything. It's such a non-magical thing to do, I thought it would be the last way he'd react. He seems to realise this, too, because he waves, and a gash appears on my cheek, but the cut isn't too deep.

"Nagini," he says softly, looking still at me, "come. Perhaps she might influence you."

I hear slithering, scales sliding against the floor. My eyes dart over the source of the noise and fear pierces my heart as I see the snake, just as I had at Godric's Hollow. It slithers, until it's in front of me, then raises its head to look me in the eyes. For a moment, I think that I'm dead, that it will strike and rip my head off, but then it starts to coil itself around my suspended body. I close my eyes and try to compose myself as I feel coil after coil wrapping itself tightly around me. I think about how boa constrictors always suffocate their prey before they eat it, wonder vaguely what sort of snake Nagini is - 

 _They're not going to kill you today,_ I tell myself sternly, trying not to think about the snake's scales on my bare skin from where my shirt has hiked up from being upside down.  _If they were, they would've done it while you were unconscious and be done with it. They still want information from you, and you've given them nothing. You still have a little time, no matter how much that is._

"She recognises you," Voldemort says. "I believe you met at Godric's Hollow."

"If you think your pet is going to get me to talk," I snarl, "you've got another thing coming."

"She is merely a reminder of what will happen should you choose not to cooperate," Voldemort says. "Should you choose not to talk."

"Well, you'll have to kill me, won't you?" I say, and it's hard to speak, because Nagini is suffocating me, but I do it as evenly as I can. "You'll have to kill me because I am never telling you anything!"

"Such loyalty to your friends," Voldemort says, with a cruel sort of amusement on his face. "And yet they give you none of that loyalty in return. When Potter thought I had put his godfather in danger, he was barging into the Ministry within the hour. Yet you have been gone for weeks now, and here you remain, and still not even the slightest attempt to free you. Your love has failed you, Hazel Knight. It does you no good."

I don't speak. Truthfully, in spite of everything, I'm glad I've heard nothing of Harry and the others. If there is no news, that means they're still safe. It's likely that they don't know where I am, and I prefer it that way. If they tried to rescue me, they'd end up dead or worse. But I don't say any of that out loud.

"Yes, we will kill you, Hazel Knight," Voldemort hisses. "But not before you serve your purpose."

His words make me sick to my stomach, but before I can use the little breath I have to use every curse word I know on him, he says something in Parseltongue. Apparently, it's an order to get off me, because Nagini's grip loosens, allowing me to breathe, and she uncoils herself from me, slithering back to the floor.

I don't dare feel relieved.

"Now, what is Harry Potter trying to do?"

"I don't know," I say again, suddenly.

Another angry wave of his wand. My stomach burning with pain, and for a moment, I think it's another illusion, but then I realise that the long wound that goes down my stomach has been re-opened violently and is bleeding again. Blood pours from the wound, and I cry out in pain.

"What will he do next?"

"I don't know," I say, and there's blood in my mouth.

Voldemort waves his wand again and the two scars on my back open up, blood pouring out of the two newly opened wounds. The pain is overwhelming, blinding - 

Another flick of his wand, almost lazy this time, and I crumple to the floor. A million miles away, I hear laughter again, and realise they are laughing at me, mocking me. I can move again, the magical bindings placed on me removed, but I can't bring myself to do it.

"I grow weary," Voldemort states. "Take her back where she came from."

Footsteps approach me, hands try to grab me, but I shake them off. Slowly, shaking, staggering, I get to my feet, the wounds on my back opening wider, so that I wince in pain. Draco is standing before me, looking extremely uncomfortable, unable to meet my eye.

This angers me, but before I can make something of this, he grabs me and pushes me roughly out of the room, his wand pointed at my back. I can feel the gaze of Voldemort and the other Death Eaters on me and feel more vulnerable than ever. I force myself not to look back at them.

"You should've just given him what he wanted," Draco hisses at me, speaking to me for the first time.

"So he could kill me right after?" I snap, glad I at least have the strength to be angry. "Right, great plan!"

Draco doesn't seem too have heard me.

"Nobody resists him and lives," he murmurs, more to himself than me. "Nobody fails him and lives."

 

***

 

"Knight, wake up! Wake up at once!  _Wake up_ , I say!"

Irritably, I turn over in bed, which I had collapsed onto the moment I came back into my cell, wincing in pain from the reopened wounds, which I had poorly wrapped up again with more torn fabric from my already tattered clothes. I hadn't really been asleep, but I'm also in no mood to deal with Phineas Nigellus and had tried ignoring him in hopes that he would relent. Of course, he hadn't.

"What?" I demand.

"You will be dead in a month."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"They are going to kill you within the month," he elaborates. "They are going to kill you the moment you give them the information they need. If you remain uncooperative, they will kill you regardless in a month. You have outlived your usefulness."

 _You have outlived your usefulness._ One of the worst words I could hear.

I sit up straight, my heart pounding, as though already getting to work on getting the last few beats it will ever get. "How do you know? How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"What do I gain by lying?" he scoffs. "If you must know, a portrait who had been present in the room where the discussion was had heard it. He heard the Dark Lord himself give the command. He told me about it, as he came to my portrait to get a glimpse of you for himself. You were not particularly amusing to watch, however. All you did was  _lie_ there in pain. I know from experience how boring that becomes. He was severely disappointed indeed - "

I cut him off. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I decided this was the sort of thing one should know in advance," Phineas Nigellus says. "I am giving you time to prepare for your death. I am doing you a favour."

"No," I say, scowling and leaping to my feet, "you're not. If you want to do me a favour, you would help me get out of here."

"And why exactly would I do that?" Phineas Nigellus raises an eyebrow.

"Did you not hear what you just said? They're going to kill me if I don't get out of here in a month!"

"I'm aware," he says boredly. "I don't see your point."

"My point, you bloody - " I begin furiously.

"Spare me with your ever so original insults," Phineas Nigellus. "And spare whoever is coming to see you next."

"What - ?" I begin, confused, but then I hear it. Footsteps. Quieter than usual, but rapidly approaching. The door swings open, and to my shock, in walks Severus Snape.

There is a moment, one that could have lasted several seconds or several hours, where we just stare at each other in silence. And then, surprising even myself, I let out a laugh. I laugh borderline hysterically until I have a stitch in my chest and I have fallen back onto the bed, and I laugh harder still.

"Of course!" I say shakily through my laughter, looking up at him. "Of course it's you! Of course you're here! Because it can never be too awful, can it? No, everybody has to be here for the spectacle! It's all one great, big show that everyone's invited to, isn't it?"

Snape stares at me, his face unreadable, as my laughter fades into nothingness. Then, he says, "While it is unsurprising to me that you have driven yourself to insanity, I should like for you to keep me from it."

"What are you doing here?" I ask him hatefully, because now I'm remembering that this is the man who killed Dumbledore, the man who cut off George's ear. "Why are you here? Did you want to torture me yourself? I bet you've been waiting so long for a chance."

"I'm tempted," Snape says with a smirk. "But it's not the reason why I am here."

"Enlighten me, then," I say. "Why have you blessed me with your presence?"

"It might do for you to speak to me with respect."

"It would do more for me if you weren't here,  _Professor_ ," I tell him, using the title mockingly. "You can always go off and see your master, can't you? Follow him around so he can protect you like the coward you are - "

My words are cut off by Snape waving his wand at me. It's as though someone puts a hook around my ankle and yanks it, until I'm upside down, suspended in the air by my ankle. Though I didn't hear the incantation, I know he used  _Levicorpus_. He waves his wand again, more aggressively, and there's a sensation of being hit in the face with a ton of bricks. Crying out in pain, I clutch my face, and find that outside of a bloody nose, no actual damage has been done.

Snape sweeps forward until he's right in front of me, snarling, "Don't. Call. Me. A coward."

I say nothing to that, just glaring at him. He waves his wand again and I drop to the floor in an undignified heap. I take care to wipe my bloody face with my sleeve before standing up and facing him again.

"How do you do it?" I ask, staring up at him hatefully. "How do you stand here, bold as brass, when you murdered the man who defended you day in and day out, who kept you out of Azkaban where you belong? How does it feel, knowing you're everything they've ever said about you and worse - ?"

" _Silencio!_ " he says furiously, and I fall silent. I'm more surprised than ever, having expected the Cruciatus Curse or worse.

 _Maybe for him to cut off my eat match George,_ I think bitterly as I stare defiantly at him.

"I have not come to be mocked by you," he spits out. "Nor have I come to torture you. Merely to advise you that is in your best interest to tell the Dark Lord the information you have. You might be spared, then."

I glance involuntarily at Phineas Nigellus' portrait, but he is putting on a good show at pretending to sleep. It makes me wonder, briefly, what time it is.

"Somehow, I'm not so sure about that," I say. "And I bet you're not, either."

He moves away from me, his lip curling, shaking his head. "As arrogant, as ignorant as ever. Very well. I won't pretend I'll be sad when you meet the same fate as your parents. Know that I tried to tell you all better."

And with that, he moves from the room, his black robes billowing behind him as always as he slams the door shut behind him. I wait for the pause, indicating that he is putting the enchantments back on the room (why are those even necessary with the Dementors there?), and then the sound of his quick, quiet footsteps walking away.

"Your words towards him were foolish," Phineas Nigellus says, having given up his act of sleeping. "Not to mention insolent and disrespectful. It's almost though you  _wish_ to die - "

"No," I say, cutting him off. " _No_. I've had enough of this. I've had enough of all of this!"

Because I have. I've had enough of being made into a weak, pathetic, helpless little girl. I've had enough of people poking and prodding and hitting me, waiting to see when I finally burst. I've had enough of sitting around, quietly waiting for death to come around. I won't tolerate it for another day.

I will escape from here. And Phineas Nigellus  _will_ help me.

"I beg your pardon?" he says.

"Listen to me," I say, taking a few steps towards him and holding my ground firmly, lifting my chin. "You are going to help me."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so, because I don't care if you reckon you've got nothing to gain by helping me. Fact is, I've got quite a lot to gain, and pretty much nothing to lose, because I'm going to be dead in a month either way. Unless I get out. Which I can. But - " I take a deep breath - "but I need your help. And if you don't help me, I'll - I'll - "

"You'll what?" Sir Phineas raises his eyebrows, but he looks more interested. As I had expected, the open admission that I need his help to succeed has helped quite a bit.

"I'll destroy you," I finally say, putting as much conviction into my voice as I can. "I'll rip you to shreds. I'll destroy that precious portrait of yours until there's nothing left but bits and pieces."

He is silent for a moment. And then - "I must admit, I am surprised and a little impressed by your determination. Yet still, I see no reason why I should help you. I have two other portraits that I may go to whenever I please."

"Dumbledore - "

"Are you still on about that pathetic excuse?" Phineas Nigellus says. "It's not enough. Besides, you act as though you were much more important to Dumbledore than you really were. He hardly thought of you."

This is probably true, but I can't let him think that, so I say, "Oh, really? Then why is it that he included me in his will?" And it's reckless, I know it is, but somehow I know that this is the right thing to do, so I fish the Cross of Elements from my sock and hold it out for him to see. "He left me his Cross of Elements! You know, the Cross of Elements that he invented himself? Yeah, he left it to me! Because... because he - erm - he thought that I was - er - worthy, and - " I think desperately back to the words in Dumbledore's will, trying to remember - "because he wanted me to see that power and the balance of it was everywhere!"

It's probably a very feeble attempt to convince him, but somehow, miraculously, it has the desired effect. He has straightened up, his eyes widening as he looks from me to the ring as though he can't believe what he's seeing.

"Dumbledore gave you his Cross of Elements?" he asks in a hushed voice. "He gave it to  _you?_ "

I just hold up the ring higher in reply. He stays silent, still staring at the ring in disbelief, before turning to me. His eyes have hardened, his face set, as though he is deciding something.

"Yes."

I blink. "W-What?"

"Yes, I will help you escape," he says firmly.

I stare at him. I know I shouldn't be questioning my luck, but this seems to have worked so well, so quickly, I don't know what to think. "Just like that? I show you this ring and that's suddenly all you need?"

"If Dumbledore gave you that ring, that means you're not only a powerful witch with a world of potential to unlock," he explains, slightly impatiently, as though this should be obvious, "but such a strong character that you are indeed worthy of wearing the ring."

"Er, alright," I say, a little uncertainly, wondering if my plan worked a little too well. "Thanks, I suppose."

"Don't thank me, it was Dumbledore who thought this of you," Phineas says, waving away my thank you. "So, do we have a deal?"

"We might," I say, thinking how off it is for the roles to be reversed so fast. "How do I know you won't rat me out right away? How do I know to trust you?"

"You don't," he says, quite simply."But as you said, you have nothing to lose, as you will be dead within the month regardless of whether I - how did you say it? -  _rat you out._ "

I stare at him with narrowed eyes, before nodding once and standing straighter, because he's right, of course. In the end, it doesn't matter. If I fail, for whatever reason, then I die. But if I don't try at all, I die then, too. I know I might as well give it a shot, and as much as I hate to admit it, he is my only chance of escaping.

"Well, I suppose that settles that, then."

"I suppose it does," he agrees, nodding gravely. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," I say, my voice slightly hoarse. "Yes, we have a deal."

He smirks, straightening up, clearly satisfied with my answer. Something about him then reminds me oddly of Sirius, though he is much, much older in this portrait than Sirius ever got to be.

On a sudden whim, I ask him, "What's the date?"

"The date? February first," he tells me.

February first. I was taken at the beginning of January. So I've been here a month. And they'll keep me here for another month before they kill me. Unless I escape. My resolve hardening, I look at Phineas Nigellus squarely and say, "Well? We don't have centuries to wait around, do we?"

He nods at that. His face is more serious now, though it has traces of the smirk he had been wearing moments before.

"Then let us begin."


	26. The Cross of Elements

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: The Cross of Elements**

 

"Well, come on, then, put the ring on."

Phineas Nigellus looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to obey. I hesitate for a moment, before slipping it on my finger. Again, the ball goes from fire, air, water, then earth. After it turns back to obsidian, I look up at Sir Phineas.

"That really is it," Sir Phineas whispers. "The real Cross of Elements. You kept that in your  _sock?_ "

"Would you rather I kept it somewhere else and the Death Eaters found it?" I say defensively.

He doesn't reply to that. Instead, he says, "Listen to me carefully, Miss Knight. Somehow, for some reason, Dumbledore saw something in you. Potential, power,  _something_ that he thought merited this object."

"I don't understand, what does it  _do?_ " I say, confused. "Everyone talks about how dangerous and powerful, but  _how?_ "

"Miss Knight, have you ever worn that ring and felt something, a sort of pull in your stomach, something that frightened and excited you all at once? Have you ever done magic you didn't mean to do, as though you were a child ignorantly doing accidental magic again?"

Sir Phineas watches me expectantly, and I remember being in Ron's bedroom, setting his dresser on fire and then putting it out again. I remember keeping watch outside the tent on a windy day, making the wind speed up rapidly, stopping it, and then bringing it back to normal. Both times, I had been wearing the ring, focusing on a specific element. And both times, I had felt that pull in my stomach Sir Phineas described.

"How did you know?" I say. "What does it mean?"

The ring has gone back to a ball of fire. Sir Phineas watches it carefully.

"Fire first," he whispers. "Always fire first. It's your primary element. Bold, passionate, fierce, impulsive, intense. Not uncommon in Gryffindors. Focus on that fire, on that power," he continues. "Then focus on setting that fork on fire."

I look over at the fork laying on my plate, then back at Sir Phineas, my brow furrowed.

"Well, go on, then," he insisted, looking expectant.

I look down at the Cross of Elements on my finger, at the ball of fire, and take a deep breath, focusing on it carefully. I picture the fork, picture it catching fire. I feel that tightening in my stomach, and I look around to see that the fork has burst into flames.

"Good, very good," Sir Phineas says quickly. "Now put out the fire, keeping the fork in perfect condition."

I look down at the flames on the fork, then the ring, and picture putting them both out. The fire goes out as if it was never there, and except for some ashes scattered around, both the fork and the plate it sits on is completely undamaged. I look back up at Phineas Nigellus, excitement starting up in my stomach and speeding up my heart in spite of myself. I'm still not entirely sure what this means, but it looks like everything will become clear soon, and I'm eager to finally understand what this ring does and why Dumbledore would've left it to me.

Sir Phineas seems fairly satisfied with my work. "Rough around the edges, but you can improve. Miss Knight, this ring was mad to hone in abilities of elemental magic - as in, the natural elements of fire, water, earth, and air. Your ring helps you gain control of these powers without the use of a wand or spells, but there comes a time where one can be perfectly capable of controlling these powers without the ring. I suggest you use the ring when you escape, however. I suspect you will need all the help you can get."

I stare at him in shock, before looking at the ring and saying, "This ring does that... and he gave it to  _me?_ "

"I was surprised, too," he agrees.

I'm still staring at the ring, awed. "It's like he knew I'd end up in here."

"No," Sir Phineas says, with such confidence that I have to look up at him. "More like he knew you would want to fight your way out."

My awe turns into shock. I stare at him, surprised, not having expected for him to say anything like that. Before I can say anything on it, though, he continues speaking.

"I will teach you how to use that ring to control the four elements, but it's much mor than that. After all, with such great power comes - "

"Great responsibility?" I suggest, smiling slightly.

"No," Sir Phineas says, looking confused. "Well, yes, but that is not what I meant. Why do you mention it?"

"It's a Muggle thing," I say, shaking my head. "Never mind."

He pauses, looking at me oddly, before continuing. "As I was saying, with power so great comes the need to learn how to balance it, so that there can be order."

"Dumbledore said that in his will," I murmur, my excitement mounting. "He said that's the reason he left it for me. So I could learn about the balance of power and all that."

"And learn you will," Phineas Nigellus nods. "It is fortunate you have found yourself with a wizard who is well-acquainted with elemental magic and worked closely with Dumbledore to make that ring."

"Yeah," I say, raising my eyebrows and deciding not to bring up how many times he had driven me up the wall before finally agreeing to help me out about five minutes ago. "Just my luck."

"Then let us set to work," Sir Phineas says, either not noticing the trace of sarcasm in my tone or choosing to ignore it. "Clearly, you have experimented with fire before. Are there any other of the four elements that you have controlled?"

"Air," I reply. "There was this one time where it was sort of windy, and I just focused on it and I made it, like, super windy, then I made it stop, and then I got it back to normal."

"You did that without even knowing what the ring was?" Phineas Nigellus says, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps I really have underestimated you. Let's see it, then."

Feeling a little uncomfortable, I wait until the ring has returned to air, focusing on the swirling ball of wind and concentrating carefully, squeezing my eyes shut. When I feel a blast of wind and my hair whipping around, I open my eyes to see that the room is now in the midst of a wind storm. The thin blanket on the bed is hovering in the air, flapping about wildly. Sir Phineas' portrait swings back and forth, threatening to fall and break. My plate flies into the air, and I just manage to grab onto it before it slams into a wall and smashes.

"Enough! ENOUGH! Stop it!" Phineas Nigellus yells, struggling to be heard over the rushing wind.

Again, I squeeze my eyes shut and make everything slow down. When I feel the blast of wind abruptly stop, I open my eyes again. The wind hasn't stopped entirely, but it's now at a faint, pleasant breeze. The blanket floats back down onto the bed, half of it hanging off the mattress. Sir Phineas' portrait slows down until it's perfectly still again, though slightly crooked. Figuring it's now safe, I put the plate back down and focus on making the wind stop entirely.

"Am I supposed to wait all day for you to straighten my portrait again?" Phineas Nigellus says impatiently.

Fighting back the urge to roll my eyes, I walk forward and fix his portrait so that it's sitting straight again. I take a few steps back and stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to say what he makes of all that.

"Well, I must say I certainly did underestimate you," Sir Phineas says grudgingly, and I bite back a smile. "But that doesn't mean we do not have a lot of work to do. Have you controlled any other elements yet?"

"No," I admit. "Just air and fire."

"Meaning we still have earth and water to go over," he says. "And I daresay you still have much to learn about actually controlling fire and air."

"Fair enough," I say, then glance down at the ring. "Well, water's next. How about we get to it?"

Sir Phineas nods once, looking thoughtful. Then he says, "Fill the room with water - not completely, mind you!" he adds warningly. "Just up to your ankles."

I quite think that's a lot to ask of me when this is my first time trying to control water, but I don't want to express that and have him take back his comment on underestimating me, so I just close my eyes and concentrate on doing what he asks. When I feel the bottom of my legs get wet, I open my eyes, looking down to see that I'm standing in water. I had accidentally gone further than just my ankles, the water reaching halfway up my calves, but at least it's definitely something. I look back up at Sir Phineas.

"Well, it was more than what I asked for, but at least it didn't affect my portrait," he murmurs. "Now get rid of the water, keeping the room completely dry."

I nod and close my eyes again, focusing on the room as it was before the water was there. When I feel my legs become dry, I open my eyes to find that the water is completely gone, and that the room is so dry it's almost as if the water was never there. I look back up at Sir Phineas, excitement bubbling up inside me at the achievement.

"Better," he nods once. "Now for earth."

"Yeah, how exactly is that one going to work?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "I mean, I'm inside."

"That does not mean you can't use this element to your advantage," Phineas Nigellus says. "Rocks and metals come from the earth, do they not? The ceilings are made of granite."

I raise my eyebrows. "So... you want me to cave the ceiling in?"

"If that is what it comes to," he replies, shrugging. "Now, I should like for you to make a small portion of the ceiling fall down."

"You want me to make the ceiling collapse," I repeat. "Just like that?"

"Only a small portion of it," he says. "Just like that."

I stare at him for a moment longer just to make sure he hasn't suddenly developed a sense of humour, before shifting uncomfortably in my spot and closing my eyes. I imagine a small part of the ceiling collapsing, and when I hear the sound of rock hitting the ground, I open my eyes and see a small, neat circle of granite is on the floor, dust surrounding it. I look up and see a clean, round hole in the ceiling.

"Well done," he says. "Now fix it."

I hold back a sarcastic comment, closing my eyes again and focusing carefully on bringing the granite back to the ceiling. When I open my eyes again, I see that the ceiling is without a hole again, though there are cracks where the piece of granite had been separated from the ceiling.

"Good," Phineas Nigellus says. "But it is clear that your problem is in actually controlling these elements, in balancing them, not in using them. Which might seem like a minuscule problem, but the exact reason why Dumbledore made this particular Cross of Elements, unlike other inventors of similar creations, was not merely for power, but to learn how to control it and balance it so that chaos does not reign. It is what I will have to teach you now."

"Well, good," I say, straightening up. "I wasn't exactly planning on twiddling my thumbs for the next month, was I? Let's get started."

If I didn't know any better, I'd say that gleam in Sir Phineas' eyes is one of pride. "Yes, it seems I truly did underestimate you all these years."

And with that comment in the air, we set to work.

 

***

 

The days pass by, and I'm careful to make sure I keep track this time. I need to know exactly when they will try to kill me. I have to know exactly when so I can be prepared. Phineas Nigellus and I work together on gaining control of the four elements for hours every day, from the moment I've regained my strength from being tortured until Sir Phineas insists I must stop before I burn myself out completely. In spite of how exhausting it is to push my magic to the limit, in spite of the pain Bellatrix and the Malfoys put me through, the better I become at controlling the four elements, the stronger I feel. I can almost feel it coursing through my veins instead of blood.

"It's the magic," Sir Phineas explains when I bring this up. "It's a sign of you becoming a better, more powerful witch. It means you're truly learning how to control these powers, how to balance them."

The first time I manage to not only use, but control each of the four elements without wearing the ring, it's all I can do not cry out from both relief and excitement. Even Sir Phineas is impressed, not even bothering to hide it with his usual snark.

"Perhaps teaching you really won't be a waste of my time," he says, which is one of the nicest compliments he has ever given me.

The main downside to all of this is that it is now more vital than ever to keep the Death Eaters out of my mind. If they see that I'm planning my escape, they will no doubt kill me on the spot, and I'm not sure what they'll do to Sir Phineas if they find out his hand in it, ether (I'm slightly surprised by how much I care about that). Still, there is something satisfying about it, the fact that I'm planning a way to escape and outsmart them right under their noses. Phineas Nigellus and I also discuss how exactly I'll get out of Malfoy Manor.

Sir Phineas will run through the portraits, yelling so I know where he is, leading me out of the house. From there, I'll run until I've reached the gates and Disapparate once I'm out of the premises, since I know I won't be able to Disapparate from within. Once I'm gone, I'll have to disguise myself and try to find Harry and Hermione again. I have no idea where they might be, but it's the only thing I can do. Regardless, I don't focus on what I will do when I escape too much. I need to focus on actually getting out first.

One day, a little over two weeks into the month, Draco is leading me to the drawing room as per usual. I notice he looks even more ill than usual, looking at the floor as we walk. Raising my eyebrows, I ask him what's got him looking like that, but he doesn't answer. Maybe they have something really brutal planned for me today. He hardly seems to be able to stomach most of my interrogations as it is.

When we walk into the drawing room, my stomach drops and I nearly collapse then and there, grabbing onto the frame of the door for support. Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Lucius are all standing there, as per usual, but they're not the only bodies in the room. Scattered across the floor are bodies, some bleeding, some bruised and battered, but all undeniably dead. In order to keep the bile from rushing up my throat, I force myself to look away from the bodies, at Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Lucius. Narcissa and Lucius are looking at the bodies with vague distaste, while Bellatrix looks delighted, both at the dead bodies and at my reaction to them.

"Like them, girl?" she calls to me. "They were all your lot... you know, Mudbloods and blood-traitors. Just like you."

I glance back down at the bodies, trying to keep my face expressionless, but all I can think about is all the innocent lives they have ended without a second thought. And they were all wizards, just like them. All wizards, their own kind, just from a different background.

"Blood-traitor," I say thickly, looking at her in disgust. "Yeah. That's me, isn't it?"

And as they try to torture the information out of me yet again, all I can think of are all the corpses lying around me, trying my hardest to not let all the death in the air strangle me too early.

When I get back to the room they keep me in, I collapse onto the bed, trying to calm my breathing, to steady myself, to forget the look of those people's blank eyes, unseeing, that unmistakable smell of death.

"Sir Phineas," I say, looking to the portrait, where he's watching me, surprisingly silent. "I want to make them pay. I want to make them pay for it."

"A luxury I don't quite think you can understand," he says with a shrug.

"You don't understand," I say. "They killed - they killed so many of them. So many wizards, just because they're Muggle-borns or they support Muggle-borns. And then they put them on display to - to scare me or to prove a point or - "

"Nothing I am unaware of," Phineas Nigellus cuts me off. "Nor do I appreciate you telling me what I do and do not comprehend. Regardless, I was under the impression that this mission's purpose was survival, not vengeance. If that's the foolish fantasy you wish to follow, then I should like for you to keep me out of it - "

"Alright, alright," I say irritably. "Fine. But if you think I'm going to let what they did slide and just forget about it, then - "

"I never implied anything of the sort," he says. "But if you and the Potter boy succeed in defeating the Dark Lord, then I suspect that his followers will soon fall afterwards. Then you might have your vengeance."

"Fair enough," I concede, getting to my feet and stretching, cracking my knuckles. "Now let's get to work."

 

***

 

The days go by, simultaneously too fast to keep up with and too slow to bear. I do all that I can do, which is train, give the Death Eaters nothing useful, and just generally try to survive. It's exhausting, but routine helps, it makes me feel almost in control again, even though the Death Eaters could change all of that in a moment. Sir Phineas and I talk frequently, even when we're not working with the Cross of Elements. I talk to him because he is the only company I really have at this point. He talks to me because, to quote him, I'm the most interesting source of entertainment he has seen in ages.

"Wait a moment," I say one day, sitting up straighter in bed and narrowing my eyes slightly. "How do I know you're not telling Bellatrix and the Malfoys everything I say? Or going to your portrait at Hogwarts and telling Snape? How do I know they don't already know all about it?"

"Your lack of faith in me is truly astounding," Phineas Nigellus says, rolling his eyes. "In any case, I thought we had already gone through this. You  _don't_ know. You'll simply have to trust me. But know that I don't stand to gain anything by telling anyone who doesn't need to know about our plan, and I very rarely do things I don't stand to gain from."

"You don't stand to gain from helping me," I point out, raising my eyebrows.

"Call yourself an exception to the rule, then," Phineas Nigellus says. "I suspect that sort of thing would delight  _you_ very much."

I say nothing to that, not wanting to admit that it  _did_ delight me a little.

A week after the events with the dead wizards in the drawing room, another surprise presents itself. Bellatrix has just finished torturing me, painful and all-consuming as usual. I'm standing up shakily, ready to be escorted back to my room as per usual, but Draco doesn't move. Instead, a lanky, skinny man with a camera walks into the room, looking like he's trying to stare at me without making it obvious (he's failing). I stare at him blankly.

"Very good," Bellatrix says briskly, crossing the room in a few, long strides and clutching onto the man's arm tightly, making him look distinctly uncomfortable. "The girls's right there, take what you need and hurry along, and make the article good."

"Erm," I finally speak up, my voice as steady as I can make it, "what the hell is going on?"

"Oh," Bellatrix says, turning to me and smiling, as though she forgot I was there (she didn't). "This is for when you die within the week," she walks towards me, her footsteps echoing in the dead silent room. "We want all your wicked little friends, everyone who thinks they can rebel against the Dark Lord and live, to know what we did to you." Bellatrix twirls the white, wispy streak of hair in her fingers, dropping her voice to a whisper. "And they can read all about how we killed you. I bet it'll even make the front page!"

I try to make my face impassive, keeping my mind as empty as I can make it. I realise, though, with a jolt, that none of them had ever spoken of the fact that they were going to kill me soon right to my face until just now. For a moment, I consider what would have happened if Phineas Nigellus hadn't warned me, but then force it from my mind.

Bellatrix smiles wickedly, before moving away, addressing the man with the camera again. "Make them good photos, won't you? And, girl - " she turns back to me, her smile twisting into something cruel - "remember to smile."

My face hardens even more, which is a feat even I didn't think I could still accomplish. The man steps towards me, holding up his camera, and this is when I realise that this is actually happened and that this isn't all some strange nightmare. Clearly, it wasn't enough that they were torturing and killing me. No, they had to degrade me, and they had to make it as public as possible. I think about Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, Ginny, Remus, or Fred - oh, God,  _Fred_ \- seeing this and have to fight the urge to throw up.

In a different time, I would be worrying about how I looked. About my hair, my face, my smile, everything in between. But my hair is a rat's nest, my face is dirty and covered in minor injuries, I forget what it's like to genuinely smile, and I don't  _like_ thinking about everything in between. Admittedly, there's something strangely liberating about being ugly beyond repair. You don't have to worry about it anymore. So, in this time, I glower openly at the camera, feeling quite like I have nothing to lose. After the camera has taken a sufficient amount of pictures of me in all my glory and has left, Draco escorts me silently back to my room. I pass by the Dementors, experiencing the familiar feeling of grief, of hopelessness, and wait for the sound of his footsteps signifying that he's leaving.

"I would look behind you if I were you," Sir Phineas says in greeting.

I whip around to see that, seemingly out of nowhere, a goblin has appeared, standing by the foot of my bed as though he has been waiting for hours - and maybe he has. Immediately, I hold out my hands, ready to use any of the four elements on him should the situation call for it.

"Who are you?" I demand. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

"One at a time, shall we?" Phineas Nigellus suggests mildly.

I'd shoot him a glare, but I don't want to look away from the goblin. Instead, I say, "Fine. Who are you?"

"My name is Grintlog," the goblin says calmly, as though all of this was something that happened everyday.

"Lovely to meet you, Grintlog," I say, raising my eyebrows. "What are you doing here?  _How_ did you get in here? With all the charms and the Dementors and - and -  _everything?_ "

"Believe me, he won't tell you," Phineas Nigellus cuts in. "I tried to get it out of him."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me instead, will you?" I ask.

"No," Grintlog says bluntly. "But I will tell you why I'm here. I have heard you intend on escaping."

My heart drops. "You - you what? How?" I whip around to face Sir Phineas. "You told, didn't you? You little - who else knows?" I demand, looking between the two of them, fear clawing up my throat.

"I told one other portrait," Phineas Nigellus says, looking thoroughly offended. "I suppose it is the portrait who is hanging in the room they're keeping our goblin friend in."

" _You told a_ \- who knows who else that portrait told?" I say, beside myself. "Why would you ever - ?"

"Because he came to visit me while we were training one day. He hid away once we realised we were talking and listened in on one of our conversations," Sir Phineas says matter-of-factly. "I told him because he essentially already knew. But don't worry, we portraits have a strict moral code when it comes to one another. He would never sell us out. Even if he would, I managed to convince him it wasn't in his best interested."

"Except he went and bloody told Grintlog here, didn't he?" I say, throwing my hands up in frustration.

"If it helps, he didn't want to," Grintlog interjects. "I forced it out of him."

I whip around to face him again, utterly confused. "How?"

"There is no need to go into that," Grintlog says firmly.

"There is plenty of bloody need to - " I begin angrily, but Grintlog cuts me off.

"I am not here because I want to expose you to Bellatrix and the Malfoys. I am here because I would like to come with you on your escape."

I blink. "You - you what?"

"I would like to come with you," he repeats. "I have only been here a short time, but I know they place no value on a goblin's life. It will not be long before they decide to kill me. I would like to escape before that happens."

I'm silent, taking this in. It's not surprising. What else could he want out of me? I have nothing to offer him but the possibility of freedom.

"And I suppose if I told you no, I should expect to find that the Death Eaters suddenly know about my plans," I say shrewdly, staring at him with narrowed eyes, though I don't really have any intention of refusing him. I just need to know who I'm dealing with here.

"I might let it slip," Grintlog agrees. "One develops a looser tongue when put through pain with no hope of escaping it."

With difficulty, I refrain from sighing. "Well, then. I suppose that settles it."

"It most certainly does not settle it!" Phineas Nigellus interjects. "Are you thinking about what you're getting yourself into? Do you understand what you are - ?"

"I do not appreciate you telling me what I do and do not comprehend," I say, looking over my shoulder to shoot him a pointed look. I turn back to Grintlog. "But let's be clear. If you make things difficult for me, if I have even the slightest idea you're going to betray me, I'll leave you behind in an instant. Understand?"

I'm aware that I'm lying through my teeth, but he seems to take me seriously, because he nods solemnly. "I do."

At that moment, I hear footsteps approaching. We both freeze, maintaining eye contact, Grintlog's expression mirror the panic I feel. Before any of us can do anything, the door opens and in walks Lucius Malfoy. He looks between Grintlog, completely frozen, to Sir Phineas, looking carefully indifferent to the drama that is doubtlessly about to unfold, and me, trying my hardest to stay expressionless. To his credit, he doesn't even flinch.

"I heard voices," Lucius says dryly. "Now I understand why. Care to explain how you escaped, Grintlog?"

"Not particularly," the goblin replies stiffly.

Lucius raises his eyebrows. "Really? Perhaps some time with my darling sister-in-law might loosen your tongue, yes? Come."

Grintlog walks to the door slowly, looking over his shoulder at me. I only glance at him, keeping my face neutral. Lucius, however, watches this exchange carefully.

"Now, why would he visit you during his escape? He could have tried to free himself, but instead he went to you," he says.

I shrug, putting on a convincingly clueless expression. "That sounds like a good question to ask him. I was just about to ask when you came along."

"And the shouting...?"

"I saw him. He surprised me. I screamed. It happens."

He stares at me a moment longer, looking unconvinced, before turning away, towards Grintlog, who is lingering by the door. Lucius lets out a snort of disgust and kicks him, sending him flying, slamming into the wall opposite. If it wasn't sealed before that I'm going to help Grintlog, it is now.

When I'm certain that both Lucius and the goblin are gone, I turn back to Phineas Nigellus.

"Well, I suppose that's happening now."

"I think, of all the foolish things I have seen you do, this must be the most foolish of all!" Sir Phineas says scathingly. "How do you know whether to trust that goblin? How do you know he won't turn on your the first opportunity he gets?"

"That's the thing, isn't it? I don't know," I say, raising my eyebrows. "I'll simply have to trust him. I thought that's what we were doing here. What makes you so different?"

Sir Phineas glares at me. "Oh, yes, yes, I see what you're doing, using my own words against me. Yes, very clever, truly."

"It's my speciality," I admit. "But could I make it to where they're keeping him and still get out? Go see where it is and if you can lead me there, too, or not."

"Since when," Phineas Nigellus says irritably, "do I take orders from  _you?_ "

Before I can say anything to that, he strides out of the portrait, head held high. Letting out a sigh, I sit back on the bed, leaning against the cold, hard wall. That response could either be him doing what I ask or him being cross with me and not returning for several hours, at least. It happens often enough. Either way, I'll know soon enough.

It turns out to be the former when he returns several minutes later, looking rather satisfied with himself. "Yes, I should be able to easily lead you to the room he is being kept in and out of the manor. And," he adds in satisfaction, "I managed to teach that portrait a good, worthwhile lesson about keeping secrets."

"Good on you, then," I say, nodding once.

"Might I ask you a question, however?"

"You will either way," I shrug.

"Will you really leave Grintlog behind should it prove to be the easier option?" he asks, ignoring my comment.

"What do you think?" I say weakly, shaking my head.

"That's what I thought," he says, nodding. "It seemed surprisingly merciless coming from you."

I just shrug. "It's not like I have much choice but to help him. If I don't, he'll rat me out. Besides, I know what it's like to be tortured by these people. I wouldn't leave anybody behind and at  _their_ mercy. Not anyone."

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps this goblin did do something to deserve this?" Sir Phineas raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps he has done something so awful that it merited this punishment."

"If he did something to piss these people off, then it's a very good thing in my books," I reply. "Besides, nobody deserves this. The fact that you'd even suggest that there's exceptions to that tells me you don't get it."

"Perhaps not," he shrugs, looking unconcerned by this. "I am only telling you to be cautious."

"Considering what I'm doing, I'm pretty sure we threw caution to the wind a long time ago," I raise my eyebrows, before getting to my feet and pulling the Cross of Elements from my sock. "Come on, then. I need to really get this down, especially if I've got someone else relying on me now."

I slip the Cross of Elements onto my finger, before immediately using and controlling each element. I conjure up flames, making them dance across the room, roaring and crackling, before making it disappear, making sure that there is no damage done; then, I start a wind storm in the room, until even I struggle to remain on two feet; afterwards, I fill the room with water, making waves that touch the ceiling out of it, before making the water disappear, making sure that not a single inch of the room is still wet; lastly, I bring down two columns of the stone in the roof above, making them jut out until it's low enough to touch the top of my head. After I bring everything back to order, I look to Phineas Nigellus, waiting for his commentary. He gives one small, approving nod.

"Yes," he muses, "you are ready."


	27. The Execution

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Execution**

 

Tomorrow is the day I escape - or the day I die. I try to focus on the former more than the latter, though. Everything that could possibly have been done has been done. I've trained and trained and trained until Sir Phineas forced me to stop, warning me that I would only weaken myself if I continued, which is the only way I would stop. Sir Phineas has tested me over and over, mostly at my request, and I have passed each one with flying colours. I've made all the preparations I possibly could make. All that there is left to do will be done tomorrow at dawn.

There is nothing for it. Either I succeed or I die.

"Are you scared?" Phineas Nigellus asks me, looking more curious than anything.

"I suppose I must be," I reply, and at his raised eyebrows, I raise my hands to show that they're shaking violently. I would not be so open about how I shake when I'm scared, only Sir Phineas has seen me shake and bleed and shiver from all the times I've been tortured. There is no hiding from him.

For all his snarky and haughty attitude, he does not insult me as he watches my shaky hands. Only says, "You will want them steady for tomorrow morning."

"I probably will, yeah," I agree dully, nodding.

The interrogation on the day before my execution is almost half-hearted. They know they will get nothing from me, and it's almost as if they don't care anymore. They want me dead. They are certain they will get that wish tomorrow. Why bother anymore? I'm glad they go easy on me. Having less pain to recover from will help me for my escape.

Afterwards, they bring me a fresh pair of robes to change into, as opposed to the torn, dirty, tattered robe I've been wearing. The food they bring me on what might be my last evening is better than anything they have ever served me. Still horrible, of course, but an improvement.

 _At least they execute with grace_ , I think, but for once, I eat every morsel on my plate, until there is nothing left. I figure I'll need the energy, even if it tastes so awful my stomach threatens to retch it right back up.

After testing my powers for the ninth time that day and Sir Phineas telling me to stop before I drain myself right before I need my powers the most, we stare at each other in silence. And then he surprises me: he talks to me. Not to get information, not about our escape attempt, simply makes conversation.

"My wife was the loveliest person I had ever met."

 _He's passing the time,_ I realise _. Passing the time until the moment that actually matters comes._

Considering that this might be my last night, the idea of simply wasting time seems like a crime against humanity, but there's nothing else for me to do. He is right; I can't keep testing myself without risking ruining it all. I lean against the wall on the uncomfortable bed, staring at him expectantly.

"Tell me about her,"

"She was kind, and sincere, easy to love," he says, and though he looks at me he looks as though he's far, far away. "There wasn't a single person who met her who didn't walk away loving her. She was bold and adventurous and desperate to see the world and make it her own. You two would like each other."

I'm silent, watching him with rapt attention, stunned. I had never seen this side of Sir Phineas before, even in all the house we had spent talking and training.

"She was so beautiful. Beautiful, and wilful, and dead before she could turn thirty."

My eyes widen. "Oh - oh, I'm sorry sorry, Sir Phineas. I - how did she die?"

"Potion experiment gone wrong," he says dully. "She was a skilled potioneer, always inventing new potions, but things did not always turn out right. This one... turned out even less right than usual. Oh, don't get that look on your face, girl," he says sharply. "It was long ago, I moved forward with my life." Phineas Nigellus let out a sigh then. "But I never moved on from her. I never loved anyone like that again. I never could. She used to tell me she loved me every single day, you know, but I didn't say it back nearly as frequently. I never thought I needed to. I took it all for granted. It remains to be my longest regret."

Silence falls, and now, unable to help it, I think about Fred. Fred, who might as well be a million miles away. Fred, who had told me he loved me in more ways than one, even if I hadn't always realised it, only to have me run away from him. Fred, who must be thinking the worst of me because of it.

"My boy told me he loved me, too," I tell him sadly, breaking the silence.

"Really?" Sir Phineas says, interested. "What did you do?"

I smile ruefully. "I ran away. Just like I will tomorrow. Apparently I'm even better at that than I thought."

"Be grateful for it, girl," Phineas Nigellus says. "It will save you tomorrow. Now, rest. You will need much of that."

He is right. I still don't rest at all. I lie with my back to Phineas Nigellus' portrait so he doesn't know I'm not really sleeping, though I think a part of him know it anyway.  _He's_ definitely not sleeping; I've heard him when he actually snores, and the ones he's letting out right not are  _way_ too loud. I don't say anything about it, and neither does he. The silence is tense and heavy and unacknowledged.

I'm not sure if I'm sleeping very lightly or if I'm drifting between sleep and wakefulness or if in its final moments my imagination has decided to run so wild that it's as if I'm dreaming. But images flash in my mind, so vivid that if I wanted to, I could pretend it's all real. I'm running through a field, free, free, free of the Malfoys and the Death Eaters and Voldemort and the war, and I'm still wearing the tattered clothes I've been wearing the past two months, and my wounds are open again, blood spilling out, but it doesn't hurt, and I'm  _free_ , free to run as long as I like.

But then I'm back at Hogwarts, apparently everywhere and nowhere at once. I'm in Hagrid's hut, and Hagrid and Fang are both there, but then darkness swallows them, until it's only their heads that I can see, struggling to stay above the darkness, as though it's water that's drowning them. I'm in the Great Hall, but it's empty except for the staff table at the front, but I can only make out their silhouettes. I can make out some - the tall and skinny frame of Professor McGonagall, the tiny one of Professor Flitwick, the short and squat one of Professor Sprout, and with disgust, I see the thin frame of Severus Snape sitting where the headmaster should be - but many are completely unfamiliar to me. I see Neville, Luna, and Ginny standing in front of a tide of red and yellow and blue, the the tide follows them willingly, and it's comforting to watch.

Then I'm in Borgin and Burkes, but I can't take in any of the horrific displays, because I'm surrounded. Row and rows of Death Eaters and Snatchers circle around me, waiting for me to make just the wrong movement before they pounce. Somewhere - yet also everywhere - I feel I can see the red glint of Voldemort's snake-like eyes, but whenever I look more closely, it's gone. I stumble backwards, and that's all the incentive they need. They leap towards me, but then before they can touch me, they disintegrate.

Then I'm standing in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but the shop is almost entirely empty, instead of busy and bustling like it had been the last time I had visited. George is there, and the two of us are laughing together like there's nothing wrong. Like nothing has ever been wrong. And Fred's there, and I wrap my arms around him and kiss him without even having to think about it, because there is nothing wrong at all and there's no reason I shouldn't be able to do just that. But then he's fading, disappearing before my fingertips, even as I reach out to him desperately; beautiful, and wilful, and gone too soon.

I bolt upright, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, trying to fight off feelings of irrational (I tell myself it has to be irrational, because I refuse to imagine a world in which Fred Weasley is gone) grief. I press my palms to my eyes, sighing wearily.

"Sweet dreams, I imagine," says Phineas Nigellus.

I remove my hands from my eyes, looking over at him to send him a dirty look. "Very funny."

I get out of bed, stretching, before pulling the Cross of Elements out from my sock again. The pair of robes they've given me is two sizes too big, so that the sleeves are overlong, making it easy to hide the ring on my finger. I quickly go over using each of the four elements one more time, sitting back down on the bed and hugging my knees to my chest when I'm done. Sitting down, however, feels very wrong. If this is one of my last moments, then I want to have been as active as possible, taken as much advantage of each part of my body as I possibly can. There's not much I can do, however, so I just get up and start pacing up and down the room.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were nervous," Phineas Nigellus comments.

"How tragic of you to have developed a sense of humour on my last day here," I say sarcastically, shooting him another dirty look.

"I see no reason for you to project your frustration out on me," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I only mean that you have no reason to feel nervous. You have done all that you possibly can, and I am more than certain that it will be enough."

"Thanks," I say, a little surprised; Sir Phineas' praise is rather rare, and I don't think I'll ever get used to being on the receiving end of it.

"Though, I suppose it is too late to tell you not to trust the goblin," he adds.

"Much too late," I agree. "Besides, I need him to keep his mouth shut as much as he needs me to escape. I don't see any more favourable options."

I decide against telling him that I'm putting more trust in Grintlog than he knows. Grintlog had managed to visit me once more, this time while Phineas Nigellus was away, in his portrait at St. Mungo's. I had managed to strike a deal with him, guaranteeing that I will get him out safely - but only if he not only finds where they kept the stuff they nicked from me, including my wand, but brings it back to me. He also needs to grab Sir Phineas' portrait and make sure I get my hands on that, too. I figure it's not long until Bellatrix and the Malfoys figure out that Phineas had a hand in my escape, and I don't like to think about what will happen to him if they do. The safest thing seems to be to take the portrait with me before they  _can_ do anything. Grintlog had agreed, apparently too aware that he needs me to escape to refuse. I haven't told Sir Phineas about any of this, knowing he'll only be appreciative of the gesture if it turns out to be successful and not a moment before.

Before Phineas Nigellus can reply, we hear two sets of approaching footsteps. Sir Phineas disappears from his portrait, while I jump back onto my bed and lie down, staring up at the ceiling blankly and making it look like I'm waiting patiently for whoever is coming. The door swings open, and Draco walks in, this time accompanied, surprisingly, by Lucius. I suppose he has decided to make a special appearance since he believes this to be my last living day.

 _How considerate_ , I think sarcastically, sitting up in bed.

"Are you ready?" Lucius asks me, though he doesn't look like he actually cares if I am. I don't blame him, really. It doesn't make a difference how I feel about the situation, it's still going to happen. He's a touch better than Draco, to, who either can't look at me or won't.

I smile, getting to my feet, making sure that the sleeve covers my hand and, in extension, the ring. "Ready as I'll ever be."

I allow them to march me out of the room, the two Malfoys flanking me as we walk silently through the halls, the only noise the sounds of our footsteps. Portraits appear, watching me through curious eyes, following me when they can, but I don't look at them once. I stare straight ahead, hardly blinking, as though drinking in the cold, black mansion in front of me.

 _It'll be such a shame if this is one of the last things I see,_ I think.  _I could think of a million other things I'd rather see before I died._

I tell myself that that's a good thing, because I won't die. It's hard to convince my body of it, though. My mind is subconsciously counting each and every one of my footsteps. I would count all my breaths, all my heartbeats, if there weren't too many of them to count. These are either my last heartbeats, my last footsteps, my last moments in captivity, or my last moments altogether.

The walk to the drawing room seems to last years. The corridors we walk through are dark and cold and indifferent and never-ending. For a moment, I imagine letting go. I imagine just letting them kill me. Something about this seems oddly freeing, liberating almost, so that for a split second, I'm tempted. But then I shake that off, because having  _them_ kill me is not liberating, it is degrading, it is letting them win, and they can never, ever win. And all the ones I love, the ones I care about... they'll see that article in the Daily Prophet with those stupid photographs of me and that will be the last impression they will ever have, the last of me they will ever see, and the thought makes me sick to my stomach. Besides, it is them most of all that I'm doing all of this for. So I can come back to them, so that they do not have to be burdened and grief-stricken by my death. Had it not been for them, I would have succumbed to the pain long ago.

The drawing room today seems like an alien place, even though I have been in it every day for the past two months. Outside, from the window, I can see a glorious sunshine, but it doesn't quite reach the drawing room, as dark and gloomy as always. Bellatrix is there, sitting with barely contained excitement, as is Narcissa, her expression unfathomable. Along with them, standing a little ways' off, is Adalina, Liam, Greyback, and the other Snatchers who had captured me. They smirk at me, triumph (and in Greyback's case, hunger) on their faces.

It seems as though everyone has turned up to see me die.

I make a point of not looking at anyone, just stepping forward until I'm at the front of the room; close enough to the door to make a quick getaway, not close enough to make it seem like I'm planning on making a quick getaway. Time is being measured in heartbeats now, each one seeming to last an hour. Bellatrix steps forward, pointing her wand at me slowly. Three heartbeats.

"Well, well, well," she says, smiling wickedly. "The moment we've all been waiting for."

"Do I get her body afterwards?" Greyback asks. "It's not the same as when they're alive, but I've been waiting to give this one what she deserves - "

Bellatrix shoots him a scathing look, and he falls silent. Satisfied, Bellatrix focuses her gaze back on me. Six heartbeats altogether.

"You knew this was coming, didn't you?" she whispers, though her voice still carries across the room. "You knew from the very first day. All of us did. No matter what you did, no matter how difficult you were, no matter how valuable you  _thought_ you were, it would always lead to this. Some things are just meant to be, aren't they?"

I stay silent, staring at her blankly. I will myself not to move, not to act, to make them think that I have given up, that they have already won.

 _Not yet, not yet, not yer,_ I think.  _Wait until they're certain they've won. That's when they'll be most vulnerable._

"All that defiance, that rebellion, that arrogance, and it comes to... nothing. How does it feel?" she asks me tauntingly, and I'm more aware of the Cross of Elements on my finger than ever. As subtly as I can, I curl my hands into fists. When I still don't reply, she says, more impatiently, "Well? Do you have nothing to say?"

I see a flash of movement at the other side of the drawing room and glance over at it, seeing Sir Phineas sitting in one of the portraits across from me. He nods once, indicating that he's waiting for my signal to start running and leading me to where I need to go.

_Soon. Not yet, not quite yet._

"Not really," I see, looking back at Bellatrix and shrugging nonchalantly. "You're not all that great at keeping up a good conversation, Bella."

Her face turns into one of anger at my use of the nickname, her posture tensing. "We'll get right to it, then! Are you sure you have no last words, Knight?"

Once more, I look to Sir Phineas, and give hi the signal: the tiniest, quickest of winks, so small you'd have missed it if you weren't watching for it as carefully as he is. He nods once more, straightening up, readying himself. I settle my eyes back on Bellatrix, letting out a deep breath, giving me just enough time for my resolve to harden, to pray for my courage, my power not to fail me.

 _Now,_ I tell myself.  _Now. Do it now._

I smile at her. "Just one: duck."

Bellatrix looks at me in confusion, before just managing to duck out of the way with a shriek as I spit fire from my mouth directly where her face once was.

Everyone, even those out of the line of fire, leap away, gasping, and I don't give them time to recover. I summon a blast of wind to send them flying back, slamming against the wall, before shooting fire at random objects, more to scare and distract them than really hurt them. Adalina and Liam, however, recover quickly, and go to raise their wands, but I summon two large chunks of rock and send them slamming into the Snatchers, causing them to go crashing into the floor and for their wands to go flying from their hands. Greyback and Bellatrix, recovering themselves, approach me, but I summon water to slap them, before freezing them up to their shoulders. I summon one last powerful blast of air, sending all those recovering and getting to their feet again flying once more, completely out of control.

With that, I run for the door. I see Adalina's wand on the ground and, deciding to take it just in case Grintlog fails to retrieve my own wand, scramble to pick it up. As I get to my feet with it in my hand, I see that Draco has managed to recover, and is standing, pointing his wand at me. I wonder whether, after everything, it will be Draco who ends up being my downfall, but he hesitates. He could end all of this, but he doesn't. In the end, that split second of hesitation is all I need. I shoot fire at him, and, as I had predicted, he ducks out of the way.

I feel the power coursing through my veins, making me feel stronger than ever. I look at the lot of them, shocked and dazed and defeated. I could make them feel so much worse. I could make them pay, not only for that they've done to me, but to countless others. It's all, quite literally, within my fingertips. The temptation is there, so overwhelming that, in spite of everything, it takes great willpower to hurl myself out of the room. I conjured up a wall of fire at the door, touching the ceiling, so that they can't run right after me, and then I'm running, and I don't dare look back.

I can hear Sir Phineas yelling, screaming for me to follow him, hurry, time is limited, and I follow after him, my legs practically flying. I run until I find him standing in a portrait by the door, pointing at the door frantically and saying, "There! The goblin is there! Go on, quickly!"

The door is, as I had expected, locked. Concentrating, I summon a blast of wind so powerful that it makes the door fly off its hinges, and I find Grintlog standing in the middle of the room impatiently. Immediately, he tosses what I recognise with a flood of relief to be my wand, and, catching it, I stuff Adalina's wand in the pocket of my robe. He also tosses a large, black bag at me, and when I catch it, I realise it's heavy enough to be carrying Sir Phineas' portrait.

Satisfied, I throw it over my shoulder and extend my hand toward him, saying, "Come on, we haven't got much time, we need to hurry!"

"Exactly what I was thinking, Miss Knight! Now go! I'll lead you out!" Sir Phineas cries.

Grintlog takes my hand, and together, we sprint through the corridors, through this cold, indifferent manor, with Sir Phineas' shouting to lead the way. I'm sprinting faster than I ever have in my life, and Grintlog is tripping and stumbling behind me, unable to quite keep up, clutching onto my hand for dear life so that he doesn't fall behind completely, but I don't dare slow down once. We run into other Death Eaters, but they're already surprised by the sight of us, distracted long enough for me to send the one blast of fire, of wind, the powerful jet of water, or the chunk of earth needed to get them out of the way. I leap down staircases three steps at a time, and it's a complete miracle I haven't tripped at least once, but I don't stop to question it, only speeding up when I hear muffled shouts and footsteps from upstairs.

And then there are the double doors, so close it almost hurts, we just need to reach those doors... I wave my hand at it and a blast of wind causes it to burst open. I practically leap through them, Grintlog right there with me, and then I'm gasping for breath, breathing in my first lungfuls of fresh air in two months, but I don't dare stop running still. We sprint down the drive, flanked by the high hedges, until we reach the gates. I raise my hand again, concentrating on making the iron bend to my will, and they swing open. We sprint through, and the moment we're outside of the Malfoys' enchantments, I twist on the spot, Disapparating, and it's all gone, replaced with the tight darkness of Apparition. I had always hated Apparating, feeling as though it was like suffocation, but now it feels like freedom.

We land in the middle of a clearing of a wood, a stream flowing along the middle of it, that Harry, Hermione, and I had stayed in briefly once. The ground is frozen with frost, the air chilly, but I barely notice it. Letting go of Grintlog, I raise my wand and spring around the clearing, putting up protective enchantments almost frantically. Once finished, I lower my wand slowly, letting what just happened actually register in my mind.

I almost died. I was so close. Had I slipped up even once... but I hadn't. I succeeded. All my work with Phineas Nigellus paid off. I'm alive. I'm no longer a prisoner, being tortured for information. I'm free. I'm free. I'm free.

I let out a strange, hoarse noise that could be a cough, a laugh, or a dry sob. I drop to my knees, giggling slightly. Giggles, however, turn into full-blown, hysterical laughter, in a matter of seconds, much too loud for the silent peacefulness of the clearing, but I can't bring myself to stop. Grintlog must think I'm mad, but I can't bring myself to care. I might just be. Maybe Bellatrix had pushed me along farther than I thought, maybe I'm closer to the fate the Longbottoms suffered from than I thought. This should make me feel horrible, but I just laugh harder. I laugh until it hurts to do so, and then laugh more, until I physically can't any longer.

My laughter fades into nothingness, and I look up at Grintlog again. He's sitting, leaning against a tree, staring silently at me, looking as though he's stunned that he had relied so heavily on a girl half mad. Slowly, coughing slightly, I get to my feet and walk over to the stream. I wash my face, partly to clear the dirt and dried blood off my face, partly to clear my thoughts with the freezing cold water.

I take out my wand, and, as planned, change my appearance. I make my hair shorten, curl at the ends, turn bright blonde. I make my eyes go from dark brown to vibrant green, I make myself taller and thicker, until I have difficulty recognising myself. I look up at Grintlog slowly and say weakly, "Well? How do I look?"

"Different," he says, after a moment of consideration.

"That was the goal," I nod once, before clapping my hands together. "Well, we should get moving again. Do you have any particular destination in mind? Or would you rather stay in this lovely clearing?"

"Funny," he says, looking as though he doesn't find me funny at all. He gets to his feet, saying, "If you could take me to Gringotts, that would be well enough for me. That's where I belong."

"You don't think that's too public? What if they try and come for you again? I could change how you look - "

"I refuse to become anything but what I am," he says distastefully, holding up a hand to stop me. "And I refuse to be taken alive again. Don't worry about me, Knight. Focus on yourself."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Are you sure? I won't be able to save you a second time - "

"As I am well aware. I'm not as stupid as you wizards believe."

"That's not what I meant - I'm just worried - " I say impatiently.

"Don't be," he says shortly. "Take me to Gringotts. That is where I need to be. I will settle for nothing less."

"Fine, then," I say, holding out my forearm.

He takes it, I twist on the spot again, and we Disapparate once more. I had never particularly enjoyed Aparating, but God, the fact that I can now go wherever I like, whenever I like, and nobody is stopping me, nobody is holding me down is such a beautiful thing that I could Apparate all day without even caring about Splinching.

We land in a darkened alley off to the side of Diagon Alley. It occurs to me just then that Knockturn Alley is close by, the very place I was taken, the place everything went unimaginably wrong, the place that led me to be changed beyond repair... I try to calm my rapid heart rate, reminding myself that this time will not be the same. I won't get anywhere near there, I'll keep to myself, I'll keep a low profile, I won't speak to anyone unless it is absolutely necessary... besides, I'm in disguise. How likely is it for someone to get suspicious of me?

 _It didn't save you last time_ , I think, but then force myself to snap out of it.

I look down at Grintlog, who's staring up at me with raised eyebrows. He really must think I'm mad. Bracingly, I say, "Come on," and lead the way onto the cobbled, winding street of Diagon Alley. It's deadly silent all around, the only people populating the street being beggars or shoppers who are travelling in two's and three's. Nobody dares travel alone unless they feel they have nothing to lose, or they have no other choice.

When we reach the tall, gleaming white building of Gringotts, I realise something. I have no money. The bag of Muggle and wizard money that I had with me is with Harry and Hermione, still in Hermione's tiny beaded bag. I can't go in there and take out money without revealing myself as Hazel Knight, but if I need to buy something, I'm out of luck. Unless...

"Hey, Grintlog," I say under my breath. "I don't suppose you can do me one last favour..."

I explain my situation to him. Grintlog nods once, before climbing up the steps to the building and disappearing behind the doors. Hoping that means he'll be back soon, I lean against one of the white columns and lean against it as nonchalantly as I can, hoping I come across as harmless, but I'm paying rapt attention to everything around me, straining my ears to hear even the smallest of noises.

I hear the door to the bank opening twenty minutes later, and I whip around to see Grintlog walking out of Gringotts, carrying a small sac. He holds it out to me when he draws level to me, and I take it. Opening it, I find an assortment of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, along with Muggle notes. Closing it again, I shoot him a grateful look.

"Thank you," I say, opening one of the smaller pockets of the bag he had given me and placing the sac of money in it.

"It was nothing," he says, waving away my gratitude. "Nothing in exchange for my life. I must thank you, formally, for what you have done for me. It is not something many wizards would do."

"It was never really a question, honestly," I shrug.

"Which makes you better than much of your kind," he replies. "And don't worry, your identity is a secret I will keep to myself."

I smile slightly. "I appreciate it."

He nods once. "Goodbye."

I just nod back at him, and he walks away, back up the steps and entering the bank once more. I wait until the door swings shut behind him once more, before turning around and rubbing my eyes blearily. I need a place to stay for a while, get myself back together, figire out what to do next. The Leaky Cauldron is the closest place, and as long as I don't bother anyone and don't get anywhere near Knockturn Alley... my resolve hardening, I set off towards the Leaky Cauldron.

The Leaky Cauldron is, as it had been last year, almost completely empty, but it still doesn't make it surprising to see, as I'm so used to seeing the pub full of people. As I walk to the counter, the barman, Tom, looks so pleasantly surprised at the sight of a new customer that he nearly drops the glass he was cleaning.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asks eagerly. "Or to eat? Or - "

"Just a room, please," I cut across him firmly, changing my voice. There had been a woman called Jessie Campbell at Privet Drive with such a strong Yorkshire accent that it had been almost painfully easy to mimic her. In the split second that it occurs to me to me that I should change my voice on the off chance that Tom might recognise my voice, her voice is somehow the first one that comes to mind to mimic, and the one I use without really thinking about it.

"Right away," Tom says right away, seemingly not suspecting a thing. "Who might that room be for?"

"Gabrielle McCoy," I reply, the name that I had thought of while still with the Malfoys, along with a full backstory for her.

"Right this way, Miss McCoy," Tom says, bowing and leading the way away from the pub.

I follow him silently, trying to ignore the feeling that everybody is watching my every move. I follow after him until he stops at a room a few floors up, unlocking the room and handing me the key.

"How long will you be staying?"

"Three days," I decide, thinking it best not to linger for too long.

"That'll be four Galleons, ten Sickles," he tells me, and I take the sac out of my bag and hand the correct amount of money to him. Tom tells me to feel free to come to him if I need anything, giving me one last, grand bow, before moving away towards the pub again.

I walk into the room, throwing the bag off my shoulders and onto a nearby chair. I close the door, being very careful to make sure it's locked before turning away again. It's at the sight of a bed, a large, comfortable bed with a thin blanket that isn't threadbare, that makes me realise how exhausted I really am. It makes me realise that I can't even remember the last time I had a full night's sleep. And it makes me realise, all over again, that I'm free from the Malfoys and Bellatrix, that I can sleep for longer than five minutes at a time without worrying about Dementors coming in and sucking out my soul, and that I never have to go that wretched manor, not ever.

I only have the energy to kick off my boots and pull back the covers of the bed before collapsing onto it, asleep long before my head hits the pillow.


	28. Diagon Alley

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Diagon Alley**

 

I sleep until morning the next day. I don't get up right away, though, opting to stay lying in bed, as memories of the last two months run through my mind, each one demanding and fighting for my full attention. I bury my head into the pillow, as though this can block out the images of Bellatrix and Dementors and Death Eaters and Voldemort, block out the sound of my screams and the Dementor's rattling breath and loud, cruel laughter that always follows the Cruciatus Curse or some other form of Dark magic.

The memories of the previous day flood in my mind, of my near death, of my false confidence and my escape, parting with Grintlog, coming here... I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head further into the pillow. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to remember it, I want it to go away...

I had been on survival mode at Malfoy manor, not giving me any opportunity to be sad or angry or grief-stricken. Sure, I had cried and shivered and shook, but that wasn't emotion. That was just a physical reaction to the pain, my body just going about its business no matter how I felt. I hadn't allowed myself to feel pain mentally, emotionally, until now. And sorrow spreads itself slowly but surely through my body, until my whole body feels like lead, immovable. For a while, I consider staying in bed all day, because the memories refuse to leave my mind, each one piercing my heart and mind like knives, and my limbs feel heavy reliving all the memories and it makes me wonder if I'll be able to move them at all. After all that had happened, I'm not even sure if I'm ready to face the world again.

But then I shake it off, because it doesn't matter if I'm ready to face the world or not, it's something that I have to do. I don't have the time to lie around and hide from the world, because there's a war raging on and friends that I need to find, so with all the willpower in the world, I move those heavy limbs off the bed, shower (for eleven minutes, just out of pure spite), and change into the only spare change of clothes I have; black jeans and a cosy jumper. Besides the new, over-sized pair of robes the Malfoys have given me, I only have the torn, tattered pair I'd been wearing for two months, so I make a mental note to stop by at Madam Malkin's after breakfast.

After pulling on my boots, I look in the mirror, staring at my reflection. I get the strange urge to break the mirror, then fix it, then break it again. I want to break something, hit something, make it fall apart and put it back together again, but I don't. Instead, I continue to look into the mirror, take a deep breath, and speak to my reflection, my reflection that I barely recognise.

"Your name is Hazel Knight."

The mirror doesn't reply.

"You were a prisoner in Malfoy Manor for two months."

Silence fills the room, pressing down on me.

"You escaped."

No reply.

"You're an Undesirable."

Nothing.

"You're going to be on the run and in disguise until we win the war or for the rest of your life."

Still, nothing but silence greets my words.

"You are Hazel Knight."

Again, there's nothing. I grab my wand from the dresser, point it at myself, and slowly begin Transfiguring myself, watching as my hair turns blonde, my skin becomes tanner, my eyes green, my height taller. I make myself heavier in weight, and it make it more evident than ever that I had lost a great deal of weight at Malfoy Manor. Gabrielle McCoy was of average weight for her height and age. I'm not.

Once I'm finished Transfiguring myself, I continue looking in the mirror, at my new appearance, and feel sick.

"Your name is Gabrielle McCoy."

The room is as silent as ever.

"You don't have anything to do with the war, you've got no opinion of it."

My new reflection seems to make nothing of this fact.

"Your parents worked in shops, they died in one of the Death Eaters mass murders, but they weren't on any side, either."

My reflection is silent, and the silence of the room is starting to press down on me harder than ever, suffocating me.

"You're moving from place to place because you don't like staying in place for too long."

Again, silence follows my words.

"You're not Hazel Knight, you're Gabrielle McCoy."

I stare at my reflection for several more moments, then shake my head and walk away; what's the use in a magical mirror if it won't talk back to you when you need it? I walk over to my backpack, unzipping it and pulling out the portrait of Sir Phineas, sitting back down on the bed as I do. I call his name several times, until he comes striding into view. When he sees me, a shocked and slightly fearful expression crosses his face.

"Who the hell are you? What have you done with Hazel Knight? What will you do to me?" he demands.

"You don't want to know what I'm going to do to you if you don't keep your damn voice down," I hiss. "It  _is_ Hazel Knight, Sir Phineas. I can't go around looking like myself, I'm bound to be pretty Undesirable now, remember?"

"Hazel - oh - yes, right," he says, lowering his voice. "Forgive me, I had forgotten. But allow me to commend you on an excellent disguise; as you might have been able to guess, I had no idea who you were."

"That was the plan, thank you," I say.

"Now, might I ask you how the hell you managed to get your hands on my portrait?" he asks.

"I had Grintlog take it and give it to me," I explain. "I didn't tell you, because I knew you'd yell about it being reckless, but I didn't like the idea of what would happen to you if the Death Eaters found out you had a hand in helping me escape."

"Oh," Sir Phineas says, looking surprised. "Oh - well, it was very reckless. But thank you. I didn't know you cared quite so much."

"Yeah, well," I say with a shrug, "don't get too cocky."

He smiles, but just asks, "Where are you?" He peers over my shoulder at the room behind me.

"The Leaky Cauldron," I reply. "I've rented out a room for a few days."

"Speaking of which, what is your plan?" he asks me. "We were so focused on getting you and the goblin out, we never really focused on what you would do afterwards."

"I'm going to lie low, obviously, figure out as much as I can about how the wizard world is lately, because as you might be able to guess, I haven't been very in tune to it for the past little while," I answer. "I'm also going to find out as much as I can about Harry and Hermione, find any hints that might be able to lead me back to them. Not that I'm very hopeful, mind you, they're careful and with all those protective enchantments... but I've got to try."

"I see," Phineas Nigellus nods. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask you... you talk of Potter and Granger, but wasn't there another one of you? A Weasley... I believe his name was Ronald?"

My body tenses at the mention, at the memories of the night he left, and I grip onto Sir Phineas' portrait tighter than ever.

"He left," I say shortly.

"He left?" Sir Phineas repeats, looking surprised. When I nod, he says, "That is surprising. He always seemed loyal."

"Yeah, well, things change," I say curtly. "Anyway, I ought to get going, I've got to get some new robes, too, and I'm going to be doing a lot of poking around... I'll talk to you later."

"I will be looking forward to it, Hazel Knight."

"Thank you," I say, but then add, in my Yorkshire accent, "but from now on... it's Gabrielle McCoy, Sir Phineas."

"I'll be sure to remember that," he says with a small nod. "Goodbye."

I give him a small wave, and shove the portrait back in my backpack. I swing it on my back, walk over to the dresser to grab my wand, stuff it into the waistband of my jeans, and walk out the door. After a very quick and very small breakfast at the pub, I head into the semi-deserted street of Diagon Alley.

I walk quickly and quietly down the street to Madam Malkin's, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone; sometimes, all a Death Eater or a Snatcher needs is to make eye contact with the right person to start something with them, and that's the last thing I need. With the exception of a few beggars, I notice that nobody is alone, travelling at least in pairs. That's bound to make me look extremely out of place, but I try not to look self-conscious, though I do quicken my pace when Madam Malkin's comes into view.

The shop is surprisingly full. Madam Malkin is busy fitting three customers at once, and when she looks at the door at the sound of the bell jingling overhead, a stressed expression crosses her face.

"Just sit over there and wait, dear, I'll be with you in a minute," she says, nodding in the direction of a few chairs, some occupied, since her hands are too full.

I nod and sit down, beside someone reading a newspaper, so that their face is hidden behind the pages. I don't take much notice to them or the newspaper, until I glance over at it, see the front cover, and almost let out a yelp.

It's a picture of me, the picture they had taken of me before my scheduled execution. At the time of the picture being taken, I didn't realise I'd been quite so cheeky as I clearly am in the photo; really, I thought I'd been rather intimidating. Instead, however, I'm smiling and waving and even winking at the camera. This seems to put emphasis on the bruises and cuts on my face, the dark circles under my eyes, how worn out I look. But what's more unnerving is the great red 'X' across the photograph, and the headline above it, that reads:  _BLOOD-TRAITOR HAZEL KNIGHT ERADICATED._

I just barely manage to stop the shudder from passing through my body. Eradicated. It makes it seem as though I'm some particularly irksome insect, some terrible illness that had been sweeping the world. 

 _Then again, I suppose that's what I am to the Death Eaters,_ I think bitterly.

I try to read the article while the person beside me is holding it up, but they keep shifting and moving that I can never hold my place, so finally I just look away, my heart in my mouth. I already knew that I'm supposed to lie low, that nobody is supposed to recognise me, but the fact that everyone thinks I'm dead...

Finally, the person beside me folds up the newspaper and places it on his lap. I pluck up the courage to ask him for it, remind myself that if someone was going to recognise me, they'd have done it by now, and as long as I keep my accent I'll be fine.

"Could - could I see that?" I ask in my Yorkshire accent, pointing at the newspaper resting on his lap. "Only I didn't get mine today..."

"Go ahead," he says, shrugging, and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say with a strained smile, taking it from him, and finally read over the article.

_The previous night, March 1st, Hazel Knight, a known blood-traitor, daughter of the late traitors Brandon and Jasmine Knight, who had been known to be helping Harry Potter (Undesirable No. 1) was executed the previous day. Knight was guilty of the transgressions of harassing and attacking several Ministry members (including Senior Undersecretary and Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Dolores Umbridge, and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Walter Yaxley), attempted murder of several other citizens in the wizard world, and as mentioned, assisting Harry Potter in his endeavours, which are known to be extremely dangerous to our society._

_Harry Potter himself and other accomplices of his are still eluding capture and are yet to suffer their own punishment for their transgressions, but with the eradication of Knight, the Ministry of Magic is getting closer to this goal, as said by a spokesperson at the Ministry. This spokesperson also says that they hope the death of Knight will show to everyone that treachery will not be tolerated in our society, and will also build a safer environment for all, now that a very evident threat in our society has been eradicated._

I can't even find it in myself to continue reading, since going on will threaten becoming sick to my stomach.

 _They told everyone they did it,_ I think.  _They think I'm dead - everyone thinks I'm dead._

It registers that I have to look as though I'm actually reading the whole newspaper, so I open the paper and stare at the pages, but I don't take anything in. It hardly even registers in my mind that there are words on the page. I just stare at each page and turn the page when I think I've looked at it long enough, until Madam Malkin calls for me.

"Come on, dear, I'll get you fitted now."

I hand the newspaper back to the person beside me with a small, choked, "Thank you," and get up, my feet feeling like lead. I shuffle over to Madam Malkin, tell her that I only want plain, black robes, and allow her to get me fitted, not even flinching like I normally do when she starts sticking needles everywhere. Halfway through the fitting, she looks up at me, as she's on her knees and fitting the hemline, and looks at me with a slightly worried expression on her face.

"Are you alright? You look awfully pale."

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just a little under the weather, you know, it happens with the changing of the seasons..."

"Ah, my friend's the same," Madam Malkin says, shooting me a sympathetic smile. "She says it's absolutely horrible."

"It is," I say, not thinking at all about illnesses.

When she's finished with the fitting, I hand her the money, and go to walk out of the shop, but then notice the person who had been beside me had left the shop without the newspaper. I take it, shove it in the bag with my robes, and walk out of the shop as quickly as I can, heading for the Leaky Cauldron, wanting nothing more to talk with Sir Phineas.

Once I reach the pub, I hurry to my room as quickly as I can go without making it look like I'm running, almost slamming the door shut behind me. I hurry over to the bed, nearly rip the bag open, and pull out Sir Phineas' portrait hurriedly. I call his name desperately, only just remembering to put on my Yorkshire accent in case anybody walks by the door. Eventually, he comes strolling into sight, raising his eyebrows at me.

"What's the problem, Haze - Gabriella? Something can't have gone wrong this quickly; it's not even noon yet."

"They're saying it worked. They're saying that they did kill me. They're saying I'm dead - everyone thinks I'm dead, Sir Phineas, look!" I say desperately, prop the portrait against the headboard of the bed, pull out the newspaper and show him the front cover.

He scans it, his brow furrowing. Then he looks at the expression on my face and says, "Well, don't look so pale, girl. It's not so much worse than what you thought it would be."

"Sir Phineas, everyone thinks I'm  _dead_ ," I repeat. "Everyone - my friends - "

It's as though something very sharp punctures my heart. My friends think I'm dead. The people I care about - the people that care about me - they think I'm dead. And it's then that I really do think I'm going to be sick.

"Yes, we established that already," Sir Phineas says rather impatiently. "But did you not know that they would be saying something about you in the papers? Did you not know you would have to be in disguise? The only difference is instead of you being in disguise because you are Undesirable, you are in disguise so nobody will think they are seeing a dead girl walking among them, and not as a ghost or an Inferius. And as for your friends - well, just make sure you all see the other side of this war, and they'll see plain as day that you are, in fact, not dead."

"I suppose so," I say slowly.

"You do not look reassured," Sir Phineas states shrewdly. "Tell me, girl, what did you expect? Did you expect this to be easy? Did you think after your escape everything would start to go your way?"

"I expected everyone to know I'm alive," I say.

"Think of this as an advantage, girl," he urges. Before I can ask him incredulously how this can be an advantage, he elaborates. "People are less likely to be on the lookout for a dead girl. As far as they are aware, you're buried under the ground, why would they bother in looking out for you, then? If they told everyone you were alive and as highly dangerous as they say in the article, everyone will be on the lookout for you, people are more likely to be suspicious of you. If they think that you are already disposed of, people will not be as on guard as they would be otherwise. This is an advantage for you, girl, it's almost as if they are doing you a favour."

"You're right," I say slowly, in a low voice. Then I say in a stronger voice, "Yes, you're right. I'm sorry, I was being ridiculous, wasting your time..."

"Yes, you were," Sir Phineas concedes. "But so long as I do not discover that I put so much effort into helping your escape to find that you lost your head at this news and gave yourself away, then I am fine with it. That would be the real waste of time."

I smile weakly at that.

"Right," I say. "I ought to do a bit of poking around, see what else is going on besides my death, I'll talk to your later. And - thank you, Sir Phineas."

"You're quire welcome, girl," he says, nodding once at me.

I put him back in my backpack for the second time that day, throw on my new robes, put my backpack on my back again, and walk over to the mirror once more, examining myself.

Then I say into the silence, "Hazel Knight is dead. Gabrielle McCoy is alive. I can do this."

For a moment, there's silence; and then, finally, the mirror decides to speak; the reflection of Gabrielle McCoy, wearing a smirk on her rather haughty features, says, Yorkshire accent and all, "Well, go on, then. Stop stalling."

"I'm not stalling," I snap back.

"Prove it."

"Fine, I will," I say, and walk out of the room for the second time that day, heading for the street of Diagon Alley to find that all I can about what's going on.

 

***

 

Actually reading the  _Daily Prophet_ gives me a lot of information, but so does talking to anyone who doesn't look threatening in the Leaky Cauldron. Regardless, I decide to go out onto the street, anyway. The problem is that this proves to be more depressing than informative, looking at all the boarded up shops and the Ministry posters about Harry being Undesirable and the dangers of Muggle-borns. I manage to push through it, though, going in from shop to shop (among the ones that are still open) and finding out what I can about what's going on in the wizard world from the shopkeepers who don't seem to be on Voldemort's side.

After a while, I'm walking down the street and considering returning to the Leaky Cauldron and calling it a day, resuming in my exploration of the street tomorrow and even going down to Hogsmeade. Besides, it's not too long until the time of the newly-instated curfew for Diagon Alley, and the last thing I need is to get into a load of trouble and even risk getting found out because I was out after  _curfew_ , as though I'm back at Hogwarts and my worst possible punishment is a few detentions and docked house points.

I'm debating on making this decision when I see the shop and stop dead. The windows are boarded up, so I can't even look into them and see its former glory - and Merlin, was it glorious. Last year, against the gloom of the street, it had hit the eye like a firework, bright and vibrant and exuberant like the owners themselves; now, in spite of the brightness of the colour of the building, the abandoned air to it makes it as gloomy and dark as any of the shops surrounding it.

It doesn't truly surprise me that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes has been closed down, not when I think about it. A shop like that has no place in a war like this. Besides, with 'U-NO-POO' posters and the fact that the Weasleys must be officially considered traitors by now, it must have only been a matter of time before the shop had to be closed down. Still, melancholy rises in me slowly, filling up my entire body to the exploding point, because the shop had always seemed to match its owners perfectly, standing out prominently and strikingly among all around it, as fantastic and wonderful and seemingly as invincible as Fred and George have always been.

It isn't right. It may not be surprising, but it isn't right. It's like restraining Fred and George themselves, closing them in, and if knowing them for over six years has taught me anything about them, it's this: you do not restrain Fred and George Weasley. It simply isn't something you do, if only because it's as impossible to do as telling the sun not to rise and set.

"It - it was a good shop, eh?" a voice behind me says.

I whirl around, my wand already out and pointed at the person's neck. It's a boy, an oddly familiar boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes and tanned skin. He's good-looking, and he looks as though he could've been even more so, had he been a bit cleaner, had his blue eyes carried more life in them. He raises his hands in surrender, and it's then that I notice the shabbiness of his clothes.

"Don't worry, I don't want to attack you," he insists.

"Because you'd tell me if you did, would you?" I scoff, remembering to put on the Yorkshire accent and not lowering my wand.

"You didn't notice I was there until I spoke to you," he replies easily. "If I wanted to attack you, I would've done it by now. At the very least, I'd have my wand out."

I look at him with narrowed eyes, then say, "How do you know  _I'm_ not going to attack  _you_?"

"I've seen you around the street today, and you seem friendly enough to everyone," the boy replies with a shrug of his shoulders, still not seeming to be intimidated by the wand pointed at his throat. "Besides, you've had that wand pointed at me for a pretty long time now. If you wanted to attack me,  _you_ would've done it by now."

I look at him with narrowed eyes for a moment loner, then, very slowly, I lower my wand and allow him to stand beside me, though I move away slightly, so that he won't be able to grab me as easily.

"It was a good shop, wasn't it?" he repeat.

"I suppose so," I reply stiffly.

"The products there were brilliant," he continues, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking up at it, and my grip tightens around my wand, just in case he decides to try anything. "Everything you'd ever need for any sort of mischief-making. It was like heaven."

"I guess."

He looks over at me with raised eyebrows and says, "You don't seem very impressed."

"I've never been easy to impress."

"Well, this place impressed even the toughest critics," the boy insists. "You've been, haven't you, you knew."

"Yeah," I finally admit. "Yeah, it was absolutely brilliant."

"See? It was fantastic," he says, looking triumphant as he turns back to the boarded-up shop. "Though, I suppose it makes sense. The owners themselves were brilliant." I tense up slightly at the mention of Fred and George, but then force myself to relax my muscles. "I knew them. They were in my year, you see, so I saw them around often. We were on pretty good terms, but," he continues, and a grin crosses his face, "I don't think Fred liked me very much for a while there. I had a thing for his girlfriend for a while - nothing serious, I just saw her on the train and thought she was fit, and I knew that they were friends with her, but I didn't know she was his girlfriend at the time, and so I go in the compartment and ask if they and their other friend can be my wingmen, and - well, you can imagine how that turned out," he finishes with a grin.

 _Yes, I can, because I saw it,_ I think, as I finally realise that this is Adam Bowman, and focus all my energy into making my muscles relax, of keeping my face impassive, of not letting the pain show through on my face.  _And he thought you were a stupid, annoying, insufferable little git for two weeks until me, George, and Lee managed to get him to lay off you._

"He had a girlfriend?" I finally manage to let out.

"Oh, yeah," Adam says, nodding. "Why, not jealous, are you?"

"'Course not," I say dismissively, and I almost want to smile at the thought of being jealous of myself. "Just wondering."

"Yeah, he did," he says, shrugging. "I feel awful about wanting to hit on her. They were good together, you know? They just  _worked_."

I shove my hands into the pockets of my robes, looking down at my robes and not knowing whether I want to smile widely or burst into tears.

"Really?" I manage to say, and before I realise what I'm doing, blurt out, "What - what was her name?"

"Haze-Hazel Knight," Adam says quietly, looking genuinely upset and disturbed for the first time. "I'm - I'm sure you've heard of her, if only recently."

"Yeah," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "Isn't that - isn't that the girl they killed yesterday?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "It's awful. She - she was good. She didn't deserve it."

I don't say anything to that, looking back up at the shop and trying to stay controlled. Something about hearing Adam talk about it clears my head. Everyone thinks I'm dead. Fred, George, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Remus... they all think I'm dead.

"Anyway - er - enough about that - did you know them?" he presses on.

I look round at him, my eyebrows raised very slightly.

"Did I know them?" I repeat.

When he nods, a kaleidoscope of memories rush through my mind; running into the side of the train and successful pranks and unsuccessful pranks and ridiculous bets and constant teasing and banter and laughter and kissing and hugging and sometimes crying and explosive fights and arguments about love (and not loving) and constantly challenging the other and mint, dark berries, and a faint hint of sweets...

Then I shrug casually, wave a hand airily, and say, "Not really. They were a year above me, so I saw them around and talked to them once or twice, and I've been to the shop a couple times and talked to them then, but... you know, nothing serious. Not as well as you, anyway."

He just nods and looks away.

"Anyway, I ought to get going," he says after a moment of silence. "I only came here to see if I could get some food for my younger siblings, because... well, my parents were Muggles," he glances at me anxiously at that, but when I don't give him any scathing looks or call him a Mudblood, he continues, "and they - they were killed in one of the Death Eaters' Muggle killings, so I've got to provide for my sisters now, except I can't work anymore, because I'm Muggle-born, so all we've got is the bit of money I had in my Gringotts vault - which I cleared our - and anything my parents left us, which isn't enough to provide for them for too long... anyway, sorry," Adam apologises, giving me a sheepish grin, "you don't want to hear about that. I'll get going. It was nice talking to you."

I don't look at him as he goes, until a sudden impulse strikes me. I turn to his retreating back and call, "Hey! Wait!"

He turns around and looks at me questioningly. I pull out my money sac, take out a handful of an assortment of wizard money, then Muggle money, and hand it to him.

"Don't spend it all in one place," I advise with a small smile.

He looks at me in shock for a moment, before spluttering out, "I couldn't possibly - "

"I insist," I cut him off. "I don't need it."

"I - I couldn't - who are you?" he finally says.

"No one," I say, with a small smile and a shrug. At the look he gives me, I say, "Erm - a friend, I guess. That's all you need to know."

He looks from the coins in his hand to me, and gratefully says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say, smiling kindly at him.

He gives me one last grateful smile and a wave, which I return, before he turns around and walks away. I watch him until he Apparates out of sight, before looking back at the boarded up shop. Though I know it's pointless, I walk right up to the boarded-up door. I reach out a hand, wrapping my fingers around the door handle, as if I could fling it open and rush in again. A good shop, he had called it, with brilliant owners...

"The very best," I say softly.

I let go of the handle, giving the door one last pat, wishing it didn't feel a lot like I was abandoning Fred and George for a second time. I shove my hands into my pockets, turn around, and start walking back towards the Leaky Cauldron, all alone in the now completely deserted street.


	29. The Discovery

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Discovery**

 

"She was so young."

"I know, she was still Hogwarts age."

"They have no problem taking the young, though, they've proven that."

"She was good."

"She was a blood-traitor."

"She got what she deserved."

"If she didn't want this to happen to her, she shouldn't have crossed them. Everyone knows that. She brought it on herself."

There are a variety of reactions to my supposed death. Some people feel sympathy for the young dead girl; some don't really care; and some are quite pleased by it. And I keep my head down whenever I hear people making comments, shoving my hands in my pockets and acting like I have no idea what - or who - they're talking about.

For a while, I wondered how certain people that I know are reacting to my death. Then I force all thoughts of it out of my mind, because it is doing nothing but making things harder for me. So I continue with my life as best as I can, trying (and failing) to find any clues about the location of Harry and Hermione.

On the evening of my second day at the Leaky Cauldron, I decide to visit Hogsmeade and see what's going on there, so I walk outside the Leaky Cauldron and Apparate there. It's a rainy day, and I'm soaking wet in seconds. Shivering slightly, I bring my robes tighter around me and walk down the street quickly, looking around me. Most shops here, at least, still seem to be open and running as normal, with the exception that there are posters all around just as there are in Diagon Alley.

I visit shops quickly, but as most of them are closing up, I decide to head down to the Three Broomsticks before leaving for Diagon Alley again. Walking into the pub, I force memories of Hogsmeade trips and sneaking into Hogsmeade with Fred, George, and Lee and talking our way out of trouble with Madam Rosmerta into the back of my mind, walk to the counter, order a Butterbeer, and once the drink is given to me, find myself a table in one of the corners.

I've just sat down and wrenched open the cap of my Butterbeer when the door swings ipen and, to my utter horror, in come Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Hagrid. I shift slightly uncomfortably in my seat, and without even realising what I'm doing, put my hood up, even though I'm already in disguise and I know they won't be able to see me. Once they get drinks they sit a table uncomfortably close to mine, and I have to remind myself constantly that moving to another table will make me look more suspicious than anything else, so I take a swig of my Butterbeer, force it down, and start playing with my hands.

"Did you hear what happened?" Flitwick says. "With Hazel Knight?"

While I grip onto my bottle more tightly, McGonagall looks down at the shiny surface of her table, before nodding her head slowly.

"Yes," she replies. "Yes, I did. I expect everyone has, by now."

Hagrid, on the other hand, starts crying.

"Hagrid!" Flitwick says, looking startled. "Pull yourself together! I know it's awful, I know it is, but - "

"I kn-knew her ever since she was e-eleven," he sobs. "Nice, funny little th-thing. I always knew she was a bit cheeky, always meddlin', but... I always said their meddlin' would be the end o' 'em, always said ter mind their own business, but this... who'd want ter hurt her, eh? Who?"

"She was too deeply associated with Potter," McGonagall says heavily. "She went on the run with him and everything. Of - of course they'd be after her, too."

"And the state of her in the picture," Flitwick says, shaking his head. "They must've tortured her, bruises and cuts all over any skin you could see... she was smiling, anyway - just to spite them, I think."

 _Hit the nail on the head, Professor,_ I think glumly, taking a long swig of Butterbeer just to give myself something to do and make it look less like I'm spying on them.

I wish very much that Hagrid would stop sniffling, because the sight of them so upset over my death is making my chest constrict painfully, and I suddenly feel like throwing up. How badly did I want to reveal myself, show that I'm alive, that they didn't hurt me too badly, that they didn't eradicate and dispose of me at all, how badly did I want to comfort Hagrid especially... they were right there to do it, the pub was mostly deserted, if I sat in a table closer and made my face visible to only them, I could do it, and I could reach out and comfort Hagrid somehow...

But then just as soon as the thought comes into my mind, I stamp it out. I can't be talking like this. It's dangerous. It'll only get me killed. I can't guarantee nobody will see me.

 _It's a stupid, stupid idea, and stupid ideas will get you nowhere except maybe your grave, Hazel_ , I think sternly, but there's still a large part of me who desperately wants to do this, and as I take another sip of my Butterbeer and control myself, I decide that I've wanted stupid things far too often in my life.

"She was a singularly gifted witch," McGonagall is saying. "Very talented witch and Chaser and did really well in school, even though I would've much preferred it if she spent more time studying and less time causing chaos all over the school. I was the one who told her she was a witch... the look on her face... not that many eleven year-olds are so polite, as well... and not that many ask as many questions as she did."

"She was a nosy little bugger," Hagrid agrees, wiping his beetle black eyes on the back of his hand. "She always made up fer it, though, she did."

"She was kind, too," Flitwick pipes up. "Brave, loyal... and a fierce friend." He lets out a sigh, before adding, "Until the very end, I imagine."

"Until the very end," McGonagall agrees heavily.

With that, the three professors drink deeply. I stare up at the ceiling of the Three Broomsticks, drumming my fingers on the table and wishing that they would stop. I take another sip of Butterbeer, now rather wishing that I had gotten something stronger.

"I jus' - I jus' hope she's alrigh', wherever she is now. I hope she's with her parents - " Hagrid begins.

I can't take it anymore. I drain the last few drops of my Butterbeer and get to my feet abruptly. I start walking towards the door, shoving my hands into my pockets as I walk.

 _One foot after another, one foot after another,_ I think, moving as quickly as I can without looking like I'm running.  _Just keep moving, just get out of here..._

Unfortunately, I was so focused on moving, that I didn't focus enough on where I'm moving, and end up tripping on one of the legs of the table that the three professors are sitting. I stumble and almost fall, but manage to regain my balance in time, cursing in my head and wishing over and over to disappear.

"Are you alrigh'?" Hagrid asks gruffly.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine - sorry - I'm sorry - I'll just - I'm sorry - I'll go," I stutter, turn around, and all but run out the door of the Three Broomsticks.

I walk quickly and quietly down the streets of Hogsmeade, looking all around me as though expecting Bellatrix Lestrange or someone like that to jump out at me, until I'm off the main road, then duck into an alley and collapse against the wall. I run a hand through hair that's blonde and curly instead of black and straight, taking deep breaths, holding back tears, and trying to relax.

"You're losing it," I mutter to myself. "You've only been doing this two days and you're losing it. Don't cry. Do  _not_ cry. Calm down. Go back to the Leaky Cauldron and get a hold of yourself."

But it takes me another five minutes in order to listen to myself. Once I'm finally calm enough, I stand up straight, turn on the spot, Disapparating to the Leaky Cauldron, deciding that I might need Sir Phineas to yell at me to get myself together.

 

***

 

Harry Potter, over the past few months, and past few years in general, had grown rather used to difficult times. He had grown use to grief, to hopelessness, to fear. None of it was all that new to him, especially during the search for Voldemort's Horcruxes with little to no leads. Still, sometimes he could think things were going their way. They had found the sword of Gryffindor, and had finally, finally destroyed the locket. With the diary and the ring already out of the way, that left three Horcruxes, including the snake.

What was more, Ron was back. His absence had made them all miserable, had silenced most, if not all noise, that usually filled the tent, and was a constant weight on their shoulders. His return made for a huge improvement, helped fix how awful Harry and Hermione both felt. Hermione was still putting on a great show of being angry at Ron for abandoning them for so long, but it was becoming smaller and smaller with each day. Either she was tired of being angry, or she was tired of pretending.

All of this, however, was ruined greatly by Hazel's absence.

Harry was so worried about Hazel, missed her so much it was like a constant stomachache. Hazel had been his very best friend since they were five and they were all the other had. He tried to remember a single day before this where he hadn't at least seen Hazel once, and came up empty. Hazel had been there through every moment, through the Dursleys' negligence, through the discovery of the Wizarding world, through every obstacle and every victory and every defeat. She was the thing that nearly all these events had in common, and Harry was at a loss now that she was gone.

The only consolation was that Harry knew that she was alive. He had seen into Voldemort's mind to find him torturing her, trying to get information about him out of her, but she didn't crack. He didn't kill her, instead just sending her away, and Harry was pulled out of the dream by Hermione shaking him aggressively, yelling at him to snap out of it over the screams he hadn't even realised he was letting out. Still, all they knew was that she was being held captive, presumably by one of the Death Eaters. They still had no idea where she was, or how they could help her... they could do nothing for her, even after what she had done for them, and that was perhaps the worst part of all of this.

Hermione, who had been out looking for food, suddenly burst into the tent, bringing him out of his thoughts, clutching something in her hands and sobbing. Ron, having been on watch previously, followed in closely behind her, looking bewildered, and it was then that Harry saw that she was holding a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_. Harry leapt to his feet.

"Hermione? What is it? Are you hurt? Is someone coming?" he asked.

Hermione just shook her head, let out another choked sob, and shoved the newspaper into Ron's hands. Ron exchanged worried yet confused looks with Harry, before unfolding the  _Daily Prophet_ \- then letting out a horrified gasp and almost dropping the paper.

"No," Ron said, shaking his head as his hands shook and his eyes scanned the paper. " _No!_ "

Harry realised that he wasn't going to get his answers unless he took matters into his own hands, so he got to his feet, walked across the tent, and looked at the newspaper from over Ron's shoulder. What he saw made his heart drop to the region of his stomach and sorrow spread through his body.

_BLOOD-TRAITOR HAZEL KNIGHT ERADICATED._

Eradicated.  _Hazel Knight Eradicated._ It was not possible. His eyes were playing tricks on him, he was reading it wrong, this was all some horrible dream, it could not be real. But the feeling like he was falling with no end in sight felt real enough. And looking over at Ron and Hermione, it seemed impossible that he had read the words wrong.

 _Hazel Knight Eradicated._ He read over the article, but once he got the part about how " _the death of Knight will show to everyone that treachery will not be tolerated in our society,_ " he could read no further. Harry took a few steps back not speaking because he could not trust himself to, because he did not know what he could possibly say anymore.

Why was he still breathing? Why was everything the same? Why was the sky not falling, why was the world not collapsing down on them, why was the earth not crumbling? Because if Hazel Knight was dead, then that must have meant the world was ending. A world without Hazel Knight in it was not a plausible one. Hazel was lively and rebellious and invincible, they should not be alive while she wasn't. If she was dead, everyone and everything else should have been, too, this should not be happening -

Hermione let out another loud, helpless sob, collapsing onto the chair and wiping away tears from her eyes. "Oh,  _Hazel_. I never thought... I'd never even imagined... out of all of us...  _Hazel_..."

Harry thought he should probably be saying something, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. None of this felt real, because it shouldn't be real, because it shouldn't even be possible. Hazel Knight could not be dead. The Prophet was lying, or they were wrong. She was alive, she would come back in a whirlwind of glory and chaos, with some sort of smart remark that she always seemed to have on hand, and that would be that. Hazel Knight was alive. She was.

"I was jealous of Hazel as long as I could remember," Hermione said weakly, her eyes still watery, brimming with tears. "She was pretty, and she was smart without having to try so hard, and it felt like everyone loved her. And she was always so brave, it was like she was never scared. Nothing could beat her. And now she's - she's - oh, Hazel!"

And then she was sobbing all over again, her head in her hands, shaking. She looked like she was falling apart. Harry did not know what to do, so he just stumbled over and leaned against the bunk bed, just in case the world tilted even farther and sent him falling. Ron stumbled over and sat down on the couch by Hermione, staring ahead of him blankly, looking like he couldn't see what was in front of him, like he was miles away.

"The last thing I ever said to her... God, I was  _insulting_ her... I was saying... this whole time... when you told me she was - she was gone, it hurt like hell, but I was so sure she'd be alright. I was so sure we'd find her again and she would be fine and everything would just work out... and this whole time I was planning what I would say to her, how I'd apologise and explain and get her to forgive me... and she - she  _died._ She's dead. She's dead. And she died thinking that I thought - that I - that I  _hated_ her."

Harry didn't think that Hazel thought Ron hated her, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. He was still trying to fathom Hazel being anything but present and bold and  _alive_. But there was one thing that he could understand very clearly: if she was dead, it was their fault for leaving her.

They should never have left her. They should have run back to her and gone right with her, no matter where they left. He didn't care about being Undesirable No. 1, he should have taken the risk. He should have used his status to save her, turn himself in in return for her safety. There were a million things he should have done, and run away was not one of them. And if he had just done one of those million things, if he had just thought a little more, she would be alive.

"She died saving us," Harry finally said, the words feeling empty in his mouth. "We shouldn't have let it happen, not ever." And because he felt tears stinging in his eyes, as realisation finally came over him like a train, he said, "I'll take watch."

And then he walked out of the tent as fast as he could, not even bothering to stop the tears from falling, because he knew they were inevitable. All he knew anymore was that he had to get out of that tent, because he was suffocating in there, and the longer he stayed there the more the truth became more evident.

_Hazel Knight Eradicated._

Hazel Knight was dead. She was.

 

***

 

For the past sixteen years, Remus Lupin had felt that he was past a point where loss affected him. After losing Brandon and Jasmine, James and Lily, and, for all intents and purposes, Sirius and Peter within a space of three months, he thought nothing else could really hurt him. Then he had gotten Sirius back, only to lose him again two years later, and after that, he had become certain, very certain, that loss was nothing to him anymore.

But then Tonks walked into the siting room on the second of March, tears brimming in her eyes and carrying a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_. Remus leapt to his feet, already worried, his mind going a mile a minute of all the things that could possible be wrong. He knew Tonks was worried sick about her parents, particularly her Muggle-born father, Ted, and what would become with him.

"What is it?" he asked, hurrying towards her. "Has something happened? Is it your father? What's happened - ?"

Tonks just shook her head. "No, Remus. It's not - it's not my dad. It's - you should read it."

With that, she thrust the copy of the paper into his hands. Remus stared at her, confused, before looking down at the paper. The first thing he noticed, his stomach dropping, was the photograph of Hazel. She was smiling cheekily and waving at the camera, even winking once or twice, but that wasn't what he noticed. She was severely injured, bruised and battered, but that wasn't all. She might have been smiling, but it didn't read her eyes. There was something deadened about them, empty. The most unnerving thing of all, though, was the red 'X' that crossed out her picture. His eyes flickered over to the headline, and he almost collapsed at the sight of it, clutching onto the wall for support:  _BLOOD-TRAITOR HAZEL KNIGHT ERADICATED._

He read the entire article, top to bottom, and then read it again upon finishing it. Then he read it again, and again, and again. But all he got out of it was this:  _Hazel Knight was dead._ The article might as well be saying those words over and over again, for all he got out of it.  _She's dead, too, that's another person you've lost, another person that was taken away from you. She's dead, she's dead, she's dead._

Somehow, he had managed to stumble over to the sofa, but he only noticed when Tonks sat down beside him, touching his shoulder tentatively. Maybe she had led him over here, before he could collapse. That would be a smart decision, on her part. Tonks was speaking to him, her tone soothing, but he barely heard her.  _She's dead, she's dead, she's dead._

Remus remembered the last time he had seen her, and felt the familiar sting in his eyes that meant tears. He had screamed at her, had called her a naive little girl, had even said she didn't mean anything to him. That was the last impression of him she had. Hazel had died thinking that was what he thought about her. Hazel had died. Hazel was dead, she was dead, she -

"Remus," Tonks is saying, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "Remus, please look at me."

That was when he realised he was still reading over the article. Slowly, and with a lot of willpower, he tore his eyes away from the paper and looked at Tonks instead. She looked shaken, upset, teary-eyed, but she was trying not to show it. Most likely for his sake.

"Remus, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry. I know she meant a lot to you."

He just shook her head, ducking his head so that she wouldn't see the tears forming in his eyes, wiping them away quickly before looking back up. "She thought the worst of me."

"Remus, that's not true!" Tonks said, looking surprised. "You didn't hear the way she talked about you! She thought you were amazing!"

"No," he shook his head again. "No, you don't - you don't understand. She thought the worst of me, and she was right to do so. The last time we saw each other, we had an argument. I said... I said terrible, terrible things to her. I didn't tell her I loved her, or that I cared about her, or anything like that. She died thinking that was what I thought about her. I'm her godfather, Tonks. I was supposed to take care of her. Why didn't I take care of her? Why didn't I help her? Why didn't I save her? Why didn't I - ?"

Tonks wrapped an arm around him, bringing him closer. "Don't. Remus, don't do this to yourself. You couldn't have done anything. You couldn't have saved her. You didn't know."

"I should have known!" he burst out. " _I should have known!_ "

"There's no way you could have known," she insisted. "None of us could have."

"I should have," he said fervently, more to himself than anything. "I should have."

Tonks opened her mouth to speak, but he just shook his head. He knew she was only trying to help, and in spite of everything, he loved her for it, but it wouldn't do anything. Not now. Not when Hazel was gone. Not when she was dead.

"I - I think," he said weakly, trying to get some of his usual composure back, "I just need to take a walk. You know, get some air, clear my head."

Tonks looked like she wanted anything but to let him leave, but seemed to realise that the very last thing she should do is force him to do something he didn't want. She nodded and moved away, watching him worriedly and wiping her eyes quickly. Remus got slowly to his feet, steadying himself.

And then, as he had done on more than one occasion in his life, Remus Lupin ran.

 

***

 

Fred Weasley, admittedly, was not always good at following instructions. In his defence, he didn't always mean to rebel against everything people told him to do, but there always seemed to be other options that were just  _better_ , so why would he do anything  _but_ that? If someone told him to jump off a bridge instead of just walking across it, was he supposed to jump off the bridge just because he was told to do so? He liked to think not. It was just common sense.

The latest bit of instruction that he was blatantly not following was what Hazel told him to do before she left. Those instructions included: moving on from her, forgetting her, dating other girls, and essentially acting like she had never existed.

Naturally, Fred didn't see what was so favourable about pretending that the girl he was in love with had ceased to exist, so he had decided to simply not do it. He had to admit, though, rebelling against these instructions was not quite as easy as it usually was. The fact was that Fred had missed Hazel Knight so much it was a constant stab would that got reopened every time he thought he might be healing. He thought it had been had when she was in Hogwarts and he was running Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but at least he had known where she was. At least they had been able to write to each other. At least they had been able to see each other, even if it had been rare. Now, he didn't know where she was, how she was, or the next time he would be able to see her.

But, he reminded himself, he would see her again. That was the one thing that he had convinced himself of, in spite of everything. This was not the end for her, or for them. He would see her again, even if it wasn't for a long, long time, and he'd get to hold her, at least once, even if she told him she never wanted to see him again afterwards. This certainty he had about it, the undying faith that they would be together again, if only for a moment, was what kept him from feeling completely hopeless about the situation.

And he really did need something to keep him going, because his current situation was not all that great. They had already been forced to shut down Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the Weasley family had to go into hiding. He, George, and Lee had gotten the underground radio station, which they had taken to calling Potterwatch, running, but he wasn't even sure how long that one would last. They were all living with their Great Aunt Muriel, deciding it wasn't safe to live in the Burrow anymore, and that as torture all on its own.

"I always knew you silly little boys would come crawling back to me!" she tells him and George almost every day, smiling with satisfaction now that they were at her mercy again. Of course, they still messed with her frequently enough, which made Aunt Muriel respond by shrieking at them that she ought to leave them to the mercy of the Death Eaters, which made Mum have to step in to soothe her, glowering at Fred and George all the while.

In short, some things never changed. That didn't always make it a very good thing, though.

On the second of March, Dad walked in, the day's copy of the  _Prophet_ clutched tightly in his hand and looking like he had just seen a ghost. Aunt Muriel demanded, rather rudely, why he had that funny look on his face.

Dad didn't answer. He didn't quite seem to hear her. Mum frowned, looking concerned, getting to her feet and walking over to him, asking him, "Arthur? What is it? What's wrong? Did someone cause any trouble? Do you think we need to - ?"

Dad just shook his head, handing the copy of the newspaper to her. Mum shot him another concerned glance, before looking down at the cover and letting out a gasp, clapping her hand to her mouth in horror.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her voice slightly muffled through her hand. "Oh, no, no, no, no."

"Are you two going to let us in on the secret, or what?" George piped up, raising his eyebrows, clearly trying to make his own worry.

"Oh, no," Mum said in reply, not even looking at them, like she couldn't hear them.

Charlie raised his eyebrows, glancing over at Fred and George, and walked over to look at the paper over his mother's shoulder. When he looked at the cover, his face fell. That was when Fred really got scared, though he'd never admit it. Charlie rarely took things seriously, things rarely ever truly bothered him. Whatever had affected him like that had to be serious.

"Come on, what is it?" George asked again, his voice softer than it had been last time. "Just say it. It can't be that bad, can it?"

But in times like this, they all knew good and well it could be.

Dad was staring back down at the paper like he still couldn't quite believe what he was reading. Mum finally looked up at the two of them, her eyes lingering momentarily on Fred, looking like she didn't want either of them to see whatever it was the Daily Prophet had written about this time. Charlie looked between their mother, to Fred, to George, and back again.

"Come on," he said in a low voice, unusually sombre. "Tell them. They're going to learn about it either way. They deserve to know."

When neither of them moved, Charlie let out a resigned sigh and gently took the paper from their mother's hands. She didn't fight against him, but she still looked worried, her eyes shining with tears. Charlie walked across the room, handing the copy of the paper to George. George shot him a grateful look, looking down at the paper - then let out a strangled cry.

"No! NO!" he said, shaking his head frantically and looking from Dad, to Mum, to Charlie, as though hoping one of them would yell 'APRIL FOOL' and end all of this.

Nobody did.

"George?" Fred said, now properly terrified. "Georgie, what is it?"

George only shook his head, murmuring, "No," over and over again under his breath. Finally, Fred stood up and walked across the room to stand beside his twin, looking at the cover for himself. It was a funny thing, he decided, how little time it took for the world to be pulled from under your feet. In spite of everything that was happening, Fred still considered himself a rather stable person, all in all. Sometimes, he really thought he should give himself a pat on the back for handling all of this without falling apart.

He felt like falling apart now.

The first thing he saw was the picture of Hazel. And for a split second, that was enough, because there she was, there was her face, and it made him feel better, the way seeing her always did. But then that split second passed, and he took in how she looked. She looked extremely injured, bruises and cuts covering her skin (Who had hurt her? Who had done this? Whoever it was, he'd make them pay for it, he'd make them wish they had never been born, he was already convinced of it). In spite of this, she was grinning cheekily, waving and winking at the camera. But that grin, that beautiful smile he had always loved so much, didn't look genuine. It didn't reach her eyes. Wherever she was, she wasn't happy. She must have been captured. They had taken her hostage, and beat at every happy part of her, until that light that was always there, even in the slightly, was extinguished completely. Now there was a dead, empty look in her eyes. He was already thinking of elaborate ways of making whoever had done this pay for it, to avenge her a thousand times over, when he took in the red 'X' crossing out the image. He looked up at the headline, and there it was, that feeling of the world being pulled out from underneath him.

_BLOOD-TRAITOR HAZEL KNIGHT ERADICATED._

He couldn't breathe. He was reading the article, but it didn't matter, none of it. She was dead. She was dead. She was dead and he couldn't breathe right anymore. His heart felt like it was trying to expand in an area that was getting tighter and tighter, and it was only a matter of time until it burst.

This could not be happening. This had to be a dream, a nightmare, and he would wake up and Hazel Knight would be alive. Or maybe he had dreamed up this whole war, and he would wake up and still be at Hogwarts, before You-Know-Who's return, and he would be able to see Hazel every single day, and he'd kiss her and tell her how he felt earlier, so that they'd have more time together, and everything would be fine. That had to be it. Hazel Knight could not be dead. She couldn't be. If she was, then that was it, that was the end of everything, and they should all be dying right along with her. The world simply could not exist without Hazel. A world without Hazel Knight alive in it was not one that should be able to exist.

"Well, will you all leave me in suspense all day?" Auntie Muriel snapped. "What is it that has you all so bothered?"

Fred didn't answer. He couldn't speak. His mind was telling him calmly, soothingly, that this was not true, that it couldn't be true, that the Prophet lies all the time, that Hazel Knight is alive. But this paper, that headline, that photograph of her with her vacant eyes and the red 'X' through it was screaming at him furiously that she was dead, she was gone, she was never coming back and he would never see her again.

"It - it's Hazel," Charlie spoke up, finally, keeping a brave face for all of them. Fred couldn't remember what it was like to be brave, not right now.

"The Knight girl? Brandon and Jasmine's daughter? The one with the awful knees?" Auntie Muriel asked. "What about her?"

Normally, Fred would give her hell for that comment. But now, he was trying to remember how to breathe, and his chest was getting tighter and tighter than ever, and the room was spinning, and his ears were ringing, and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so helpless. She couldn't be dead, there was no way, this was a lie, every single word, it had to be.

"She's dead, Aunt Muriel," Charlie sighed, rubbing his face blearily, sounding suddenly exhausted. "She's dead. They killed her."

"No," George muttered, looking up from the paper to look between Charlie and Aunt Muriel frantically, looking like he desperately hoped this was all some sort of dream. "No! This can't be happening! She can't be head! She's not - the Prophet always lies, you know that! Hazel isn't - "

"George," Charlie said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Look at the picture of her. The Death Eaters must have gotten to her. You know what they're like, they wouldn't hesitate to kill her - "

"She - is - not -  _dead!_ " George insisted, shaking his head. "She'd have escaped, or Harry or  _someone_ saved her, but she got out of there, she had to, it's - it's Hazel! She'd have found a way, she always does, it's Hazel! She's not - she's not dead - Fred, tell them. Come on, tel them this is mad!"

Fred wanted to tell them that this was mad. He was still having trouble with speaking. Breathing was getting more and more difficult. His heart was definitely at the exploding point now. Fred couldn't remember the last time a room filled with so many Weasleys had been so quiet; but then, Fred couldn't remember much of anything now. All he could see was Hazel's face, but every memory he had was tainted, suddenly transformed into an image of her battered and bruised and fading.

"Fred," George said again, more desperately. "Fred, please."

Fred opened his mouth, though he didn't know what he was going to say. It didn't really matter, though, because no sound came out anyway. George let out the same, strangled cry as before, a hopeless sort of sound, before collapsing back into his chair and putting his head in his hands, still murmuring, "No, no, no," under his breath. Fred thought he ought to do something to help him, but he couldn't move. In the end, it didn't matter, because Charlie moved forward and put an arm around George.

And then, quite abruptly, Fred fled. His feet carried him out of the room, not stopping until he reached the room he shared with George, slamming it shut behind him. He collapsed onto the bed, running his hand through his hair and trying to remember how to breathe.

"Hazel," he murmured, his voice coming out hoarse. "Hazel, please, please, don't be dead. Please come back. Please."

There was a knock on the door. Probably George, but Fred didn't know why he was knocking. Fred waited for him to come in, but he didn't, just knocking on the door again. Raising his head slightly, he called out uncertainly, "You can come in, you know."

The door creaked open, and in came Mum, instead of George as he had suspected. He just blinked, staring at her, surprised.

"Can - can I sit down?" she asked weakly.

Fred just gestured to the space beside him, looking back down at his lap, sighing. Mum sat down beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"I can't believe it, either," she said softly. "I can't believe it. She was always so full of life. I worried about her all the time, of course, but I never really thought that... that this would..."

She trailed off. Fred looked up at her and saw that her face was stained with tears. Had she always been crying? How could he not have noticed? Seeing her cry made him feel like the whole world was coming crashing down, but now it was all real, realer than it had been moments ago. She was dead. Hazel was dead. He would never see her again. And now he was crying, too, weeping like he hadn't done since he was a child, burying his head on his Mum's shoulder to muffle his sobs a little.

"I love her, Mum," he choked out. "I love her so much."

Mum tightened her grip around him, bringing her closer to hug him tighter, in that motherly way he hadn't allowed her to do for years. "I know you do, Fred. I know you do."

And if it hadn't been impossible to follow Hazel's instructions for him before, there was no chance of it now. None at all.


	30. The Camp Site

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty: The Camp Site**

 

A talk with Sir Phineas after the incident in the Three Broomsticks ends in him encouraging me to take more direct action in finding Harry and Hermione.

"Retrace your steps. It may jog your memory, give you some idea as to where they are now. If nothing else, it might do you some good to be away from people for a time."

I can hardly argue with that, so the next day, I check out of the Leaky Cauldron and set off on my way. I have little success finding Harry and Hermione in any of the previous places we had stayed - not that I'm surprised. There's no way they would've stayed in the Forest of Dean for too long, and it's too risky going to the same place more than once. I know this even as I set off, but I'm desperate to find something, anything, even draw up a memory as I'm searching that might lead me back to them.

Of course, I can't go shouting their name in my search to find them, because it's dangerous in case any enemies find me instead of friends, and in any case, Gabriella McCoy is not linked to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger in any way. Instead, I lie low at each place I visit, maybe camping for two or three nights, but never really getting much rest. That's the problem lately; even though I know that I probably won't get attacked by Dementors if I sleep, I can hardly ever get myself to fall asleep anymore, and whenever I do manage it, it's plagued with nightmare and frequently waking up in the middle of the night. Except for the first time I slept after I escaped, I can't remember the last time I've had a good sleep.

When I at last Apparate to the first place we had ever gone besides Grimmauld Place, the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup, it's already with plans to find a small town nearby, tent out a room for a while, and figure myself out again.

It comes as something of a shock when, after a while of wandering through the woods, I hear voices. They're too distant for me to be able to make out who it is, but both hope and fear surges through me. It could easily be an enemy, I know that. I know that it's very, very unlikely for Harry and Hermione to have returned, but I can't help but feel a flicker of hope. What if something had happened, what if they felt some need to return, what if I had just gotten terribly, unbelievably lucky...

Regardless of my hope, I clutch onto my wand more tightly, and start walking more quietly, carefully avoiding twigs or anything that would make any sort of noise, hardly daring to breathe.

 _Please let it be them,_ I think.  _Please, please let it be them..._

Once I get close enough to make out the sounds of their voices, I realise that, of course it isn't. I chastise myself for being disappointed; every ounce of common sense in my body told me that it wouldn't be them. I chose to get hopeful.

And with fear now coursing strongly through me, coupled with disappointment, I still edge ever closer to the source of the voices, wanting to hear what they're saying. Hopefully their conversation will be an indication of whether or not they're friend or foe.

"Don't be stupid," says an oddly familiar easy-going voice. "They'll be fine. I highly doubt that whoever this intruder is will be a match for Felix and Marina. Those two duel better than a lot of fully-grown wizards I've seen."

"Yeah, Grover, calm down," another voice, this one unfamiliar, says. "You always worry so much."

"Excuse me for  _caring_ ," a voice says, clearly this Grover person, but I hardly care at this point, my heart racing.

"Intruder," I mutter under my breath. "They don't mean - "

"Hey, you!" a voice from behind me calls commandingly.

I curse under my breath, look around, as though trying to find someone else that they could possibly be talking to, then turn around very slowly. I find two people several feet in front of me, their wands drawn and pointed directly at me. One is a boy, I'm assuming to be Felix, looking to be in his late twenties, with green eyes darker than the colour of my own currently, wavy blond hair, and his eyes narrowed as he looks at me. Next to him is a woman, this one being Marina, shorter than the man but still fairly tall, with sharp eyes, light ochre skin, and short hair, looking to be older than the boy, in perhaps her early thirties.

"What's your name?" Marina asks me. "And don't go think about Apparating, we've got the vicinity under enchantments, you're not going anywhere."

"My name is Gabrielle McCoy," I reply, putting on my Yorkshire accent. "Mind if I ask what I've done wrong?"

"You're trespassing, that's what," Marina replies.

"How?" I say, frowning slightly and hoping I sound more confused than scared. "This isn't  _your_ forest - "

"If you knew what we're up to, you wouldn't want to be trespassing, trust me," Felix states.

"I don't want to get involved with you," I say, holding up my hands in surrender. "I'll mind my own business, get out of - "

"I don't think so," Marina says firmly. "What are you doing here?"

"Just having a leisurely stroll," I reply. "Going to go camping, too."

"Camping," Felix repeats, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

"Camping," I confirm, before adding dryly, "I've been doing loads of it lately."

"And why's that?" Marina jumps in. "Not hiding, are you? Not on the run?"

"No," I lie. "Why would I be?"

"You tell us," Marina retorts.

"Well, I'll tell you right now that I'm not on the run," I say firmly. "I live a quiet life, you see. Are you lot on the run, or something?"

"I think you should stop avoiding our questions and answer them, instead of asking us questions," Marina says. "We're the boss, here."

"Says who?"

"Says the back up we've got waiting for us," she answers.

I lick my lips slightly, my eyes sweeping around the woods. So they have back up. And I can't Apparate. But there's obviously no way they've got the entire vicinity under enchantments; if I could just find out how much ground they have covered and find a way to run and get out of there...

"I hardly think you need back-up to deal with me," I say, still looking around, trying to find an opening, any way to get out and quickly. "I don't think there should be need for any fighting at all."

"And why's that?" Felix asks, looking at me suspiciously, while I notice that there's a clearing just to my left, a path with very little trees... even if my vision were to be obscured, my chances of getting hurt would be minimal...

"Because I think I'll be leaving right... about... now," I say, raise my wand and cry, " _Fumos!_ "

Immediately, a cloud of grey smoke forms, obscuring them from view - which means they can't see me either. I jump on the opportunity, running in the direction of the clearing. The smoke clears a little way into the clearing, and glad to be able to see clearly again, I accelerate. I can hear Marina and Felix yelling, know that they're yelling for back-up, that they're using spells to clear away the smoke, that they're trying to find me.

" _Specialis Revelio!_ " I whisper, holding out my wand, trying to find the limits of their enchantments.

I find that it's a good six hundred metres in front of me, and, once again, accelerate, trying at first to be quiet, but now just trying to get there and out of here in time. I hear two pairs of footsteps pounding behind me, and two to my left, and veer to the right, moving in between the trees, stumbling but never stopping - except for when I find myself in front of a boy around my age with olive skin, sharp brown eyes, and messy black hair, and immediately, I know to whom the easy-going voice belonged.

In my surprise, I don't even remember to put on the Yorkshire accent.

"Devon?"

There's a stunned silence at my words, only broken by the sound of the other people walking slowly towards us. Devon is staring at me in shock.

Finally, he says, "Hazel - ?"

But I don't let him finish. Instead, I pull out Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, which I had bought a lot of before I had left, throw it at the ground, and when the area becomes shrouded in complete darkness, run as fast as I can, because I might be looking at Devon Fuller, but it might not really be him. It might be someone else using Polyjuice Potion. It might be Devon Fuller under the Imperius Curse. And quite frankly, if he's with this group that was willing to attack me and take me away, then I don't trust him anymore than I do the people around him, forget that he's Jace's boyfriend and we got along fine last year.

I can't see in the darkness, so I'm left to muttering, "Point me," over and over again and feeling around with my free hand, hoping that whatever is in front of my path, my hand will feel it before I smash into it head first. I stumble and fall over and over again, but the sound of their footsteps is at a decent distance from me, so I try not to panic - well, not any more than I already have.

Once I'm away from the darkness, I start running at full speed again, zigzagging between trees, causing explosions to go off at random from behind me. I whisper, " _Specialis Revelio!_ " again to find that I'm only four hundred metres away. Then three hundred metres... two hundred metres... at one hundred metres, I chance a glance back, and find nobody behind me. I look around wildly, trying to see if they're hiding somewhere, because I could've sworn I had heard footsteps only moments before, but still find nobody.

It throws me off, terrifies me more than the sight of them chasing after me, but I can't stop now, so I turn back around and go to accelerate, but then have to come to an abrupt halt, almost falling over, because again, I'm face-to-face with Devon. I let out a slight gasp, turning around to try and find another rout out, but they have me surrounded. I half have to wonder how they appeared like this, but half focus on trying to find a way out. I look around wildly, realise that there's no way out of this one, since they outnumber me largely and anything else I could've used as a distraction is in my bag, meaning they'll manage to get to me before I can pull it out and use it, and look around at each face, breathing heavily from running so hard.

"What do you want?" I finally gasp out to the surrounding group at large, with no accent.

"What I want to know," Devon begins, and I whip back around to face him, "is how exactly you managed to come back from the dead, Hazel Knight."

"Simple," I breathe. "I was never dead for me to have to come back."

"Wait," a voice says, and I look around to see Felix looking at me with a slight frown, "so she - you're really Hazel Knight?" When I nod, he says, "But... you're blonde." I almost roll my eyes. With difficulty, I stop myself, because everyone except for Devon has their wand pointed at me, and it's better not to provoke them when I'm trapped like this.

"Yes, I am," I say, my breath still rather ragged. "It's almost as if I used Transfiguration to alter my appearance, so nobody would recognise me."

"Oh, right," Felix says quietly. "Sorry, just... shocked. The entire world thinks you're dead, you know."

"It had slipped my notice," I mumble.

"So?" Devon prompts. "Are you going to explain everything to us or not?"

"Wait... so you're not going to, like, attack me or capture me, or something?" I say slowly.

"Why the hell would we?" Marina says, looking slightly started. "If you really are Hazel Knight, then you're on our side; you have to be, you're associated heavily with Harry Potter, and they wouldn't haven taken you if you weren't."

I look around at the group gathered. Now that I realise that they're apparently not going to hurt me, I allow myself to take in the other two, the ones I don't know. There's a man who appears to be in his early twenties, with light brown skin, curly black hair, and dark, twinkling eyes. He's a rather handsome man, the only thing that seems to detract from his appearance being the scars that are visible from his neck to his cheek, though I get the impression that they stretch on for longer than that, I just can't see them. Opposite him is a girl, looking to be a little older than me, with dark skin and wide eyes and thick, curly hair that falls to her shoulders. Along with the rest of the group, they seem to be almost random, as though they were thrown together by an odd, mere chance, and here they are now.

"Who - what - what is this?" I finally say, looking around cluelessly.

"How about we take this to the tent?" the man with the scars suggests. "We can explain everything to you, and then maybe you'll have some explanations for us..."

"Maybe I will," I say slowly, looking at the man carefully, and he smiles.

"Come on," he says, turning around and leading the way back to the place I had been desperate to escape.

Feeling confused and suspicious but hopeful, I hang back until I'm behind the rest of the group, wanting to be able to watch them, instead of being watched. Devon, however, turns to me with raised eyebrows.

"Well, come on, then," he says, and I hurry after them, but still make sure to stay a little behind them, watching them all carefully.

I shouldn't be so tense, really. Even if I can't trust their word, I can trust their action, and the fact of the matter is that if they were going to imprison me or hurt me, they would've taken my wand away or tied me up or  _something_. But I don't think I'll be completely at easy until I've heard their story and believed it all.

The other four talk amicably while we walk, but Devon doesn't talk as much as the rest of them, repeatedly glancing over at me, and I privately wish that he'd stop everytime he does. When we reach the tent, which is very small and makes me realise immediately that it must be bigger on the inside, the four duck into the tent immediately, though Marina casts me a backwards glance.

Devon, however, holds the tent flap open for me and says, "After you."

I glance at him for a moment, before letting out a slight sigh, and fucking inside myself. The tent is very similar to the tent that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I had used, in terms of layout, though this one is larger and seems cosier, maybe due to all the personal touches made to it. There are posters hung up everywhere, from bands to Quidditch teams, but some of them are posters that you see hung up on Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade lately, talking about Harry, 'Undesirable No. 1,' or the dangers of Muggle-borns (of course, the posters call them Mudbloods) on a pure-blood society. On posters like these, there's writing on them. Be it writing cursing out the posters on Muggle-borns or support for Harry Potter, there is writing. There are also clippings from various articles from what seems to be the  _Daily Prophet_ and  _The Quibbler._

"Well, this is home for is," Marina says, gesturing around the tent. "Like it?"

"It's... cosy," I say slowly, and she laughs.

"I'm sure you were living in five star conditions, with the Lestranges and the Malfoys," she states.

My body tenses at the mention, but I say, as calmly as I can, "I'm sure there are worse conditions."

The man with the scars seems to notice that I've tensed, because he gives Marina a look, but she ignores or doesn't notice him, continuing to look at me as she says, "So, anyway, why don't you prove to us that you really are Hazel Knight. Take off your costume."

I look around at them apprehensively, but they're all looking at me expectantly, so I draw my wand, point it at myself, and undo the spells I've put upon myself. Immediately, I feel myself growing shorter, thinner, I ca see my hair growing longer and turning from blonde to black, and no doubt my eyes are going from vibrant green to dark brown. And I can tell, most especially from the looks on their faces, that I've gone from tall, blonde, innocent Gabrielle McCoy, to short, dark-haired, supposedly dead and undesirable Hazel Knight, feeling rather naked as they stare at me. I fold my arms over my chest, as though to make the matter easier, but they don't seem to realise that I'm uncomfortable.

Then, the man with the scars clears his throat and says, "Well, good to know that we really are facing Hazel Knight. Now, I think we said that we'd explain who we are to you?"

"I think you did," I mumble, feeling grateful for the man, because now people aren't focusing their full attention on me.

"Then, I'll start, shall I?" he says. "I'm Grover Bassili; this is Marina Kita, Felix Nichols," Grover points at Marina and Felix respectively, "this, as you apparently already know, is Devon Fuller," he continues, gesturing towards Devon, "and this is Layla Meadowes," he finishes, pointing at the curly-haired girl.

"Right," I say slowly. "But what - what is this? Why are you all on the run?"

"Who says we're on the run?" Grover says, raising an eyebrow and grinning at me.

"Well... you're in the middle of a forest with a bunch of enchantments and, by the looks of it, you definitely were willing to make sure I wasn't any threat, so..."

"You've got a point," Grover says, nodding and shrugging. "We're all on the run for different reasons, though. Take me, for example. A couple months ago I got attacked by a werewolf. One of my friends managed to save me from being bitten, but I was badly scratched. I'm not a full werewolf, but I'm vicious in more ways than one on the full moon, so I always make sure I'm left well alone. Anyway, when You-Know-Who took control o the Ministry, a couple of werewolves, including the one that bit me, found me. They gave me a bit of a proposition, you could say," he continues, a bitter sort of smile on his face, which is odd to see, because he's been all charm and smiles the entire time. "That if I joined them, I'd be safe. They could even  _finish the job for me_ , as they put it. Obviously, as I said no, they didn't like it much, so they attacked me, this time intending to kill me. I managed to hold my own, though, and get away with my life, going on the run. Along the way, I met up with Layla, and we met up with Devon and Felix, then we found Marina, and now... here we are."

"Here you are," I agree, nodding. "How about the rest of you, then?"

"I'm Muggle-born," Devon states. "That's enough for me to be on You-Know-Who's hitlist, so it's enough for me to go on the run to save my arse. We've got some pretty close family in Peru, so I took my parents and my sister to stay with them until it was safe. I've been on the run ever since."

"My family's famous for being blood-traitors," Layla says, rather bluntly. "My mum was killed by You-Know-Who during the first war. My dad managed to survive, but he was scared for me, so he went to his brother, who's a really powerful wizard but never joined the Order, and sort of just lived a quiet life, and asked him to take care of me while he went off doing stuff for the Order, and he promised he'd take full care of me once the chaos was over. And he almost made it," she continues, a sad expression now on her face, "You-Know-Who was gone and everything, but the Death Eaters that had managed not to get caught and put in Azkaban yet found him and killed him. After that, my uncle was heartbroken, but he was also furious; he went from a small shop-keeper to a Ministry member, and he soon became really high up in the Auror Department, fighting fiercely against any and all Dark magic. Obviously, that's been an influence on me, and even without what happened to my parents, I've always despised the Dark Arts and I've always wanted to fight against it. Then the war broke out again, and the Death Eaters took my uncle. I knew it was only a matter of time until they wanted me, so I ran for it."

"I'm a half-blood, but my mum got in a bit of trouble with some werewolves," Felix explains, sinking down into one of the armchairs and propping his feet up on the coffee table. "She ended up crossing them, and they were just about to duel, when one of the werewolves said that, since somewhere it had cropped out that she had kids, they would leave my mum alone if she gave them her youngest kids - my brother and my sister. Obviously, my mum said no and ended up jinxing them all, so they told her, best as they could through all the jinxes, that they'd get her one day, and they'd have help she couldn't imagine. They weren't lying. In the end, my mum had to leave without me with my brother and sister. One night during the summer I was at my mate's, and I got a message from my mum's Patronus. All it said was 'They're coming. We have to leave. Take what you can and run.' and that was it. Obviously, I rushed home as soon as I could, ready to duel, but nobody was there. I must've done Homenum Revelio about a million times. The place was trashed, though. Stripped of everything the Snatchers and the werewolves would've considered valuable - not that that's too much, we've never been... well, anyway, I took whatever was left that was important to me and ran for it."

"And then there's me, I guess, eh?" says Marina, who's lying on her bunk, propped up on her elbows. "Well, I'm Muggle-born. And I'm also a Metamorphmagus. Metamorphmagi are already pretty rare, so I guess I pissed them off especially hard with having powers that a lot of Pure-blood wizards don't have. Either way, one day they caught me and a bunch of other Muggle-borns, and they were just about to ship us off to Azkaban, when we attacked. We tried to escape. As you can imagine, it was awful. Loads of us died. The rest of us took our wands if we could find them, took someone else's if we couldn't, and ran for it. Then the numbers dwindled down, because we kept on getting split up... and then one day, it was just me... until I met this lot, that is."

I stand there, taking in their individual stories, each as horrible as the next in any order. Then, slowly, I saw, "So... you're this group that just... met by chance? And now you're just all on the run together?"

"Yes and no," Devon says, with his old mischievous smile, though I don't understand why he's smiling. "We're not just on the run... we're doing more than staying safe... we're keeping busy."

"Some would say that staying safe at a time like this would count as keeping busy," I point out.

"You wouldn't, though," he says.

"Touché," I say, half-smiling at him.

"We've decided to avenge ourselves on the Death Eaters and the Snatchers," Devon continues. "Basically, we move around the country, going from place to place in secret, finding out as much as we can about their movements, about their next attack on Muggle-borns or werewolves or vampires or any innocent person they'd want to get rid of, and we interfere. We ruin their plans, and take their victims far enough so that they're safe and can go on the run themselves."

"So, you guys are like the Anti-Snatchers?" I say, then add, the corners of my lips twitching upwards, "The Back-Snatchers?"

"Yes, but if you call us that last one again, I'll back your head in, Hazel Knight or not," Marina replies.

"I actually like the name," Felix interjects, putting his hands behind his head and grinning.

"You would, Nichols," Marina says, rolling her eyes. "Anyway," she continues briskly, getting to her feet and moving across the tent, to one of the Daily Prophet cuttings and points at it, "we've explained ourselves, it's time you did the same."

I walk forward so that I can see the Daily Prophet article, and see my picture, smiling and waving and winking cheekily at the camera, a great red 'X' on the picture, and recognise it as the article deeming me dead. I remain silent for a moment, calming myself enough to explain.

"Take your time," Grover interjects earnestly.

"Yeah, you haven't got to tell us now, Hazel," Devon adds.

"No, it's fine," I say, in an odd voice. "No time like the present, right?" I say. "Well... this big group of Snatchers - managed to capture me, and they Disapparated and took me to this - sort of - field - I don't know where exactly - and started - well, they started torturing me for information. I didn't give any, obviously, no matter what I said, so some of them wanted to kill me, but then the leader, Adalina, said that they should take me to the Malfoys. Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself are always going in and out of there, and there's Bellatrix Lestrange, who... was my biggest fan over there," I say, with a sarcastic smile. "So, they took me over there..."

And I continue telling the rest of my story, up until the point that I stumbled across them, all of them watching me with rapt attention the whole time. My hands shake while telling them about some of the more gruesome, terrible interrogations, though I try to speed through those parts, and I clasp my hands together whenever I do, keeping my voice as steady as I can make it.

"... and, yeah, that's how I ended up here," I finish, with one last deep breath. "Completely and totally not dead."

For a while, a very heavy silence follows my words, and again, I feel exposed and self-conscious and I desperately want them to look away from me. Finally Marina turns away from me, to look at the article in the  _Daily Prophet_ , the article that's telling the world that I'm dead.

"Well, I guess it makes sense that they're telling everyone they succeeded," she says thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her index finger idly. "It'd spark too much trouble. I mean, if they can't deal with a teenager, who says they can deal with a whole rebellious society, with teenagers and adults alike."

"Who gave you those scars?" Grover says sharply, and I turn around to see him staring at the scars running along my arm, the ones visible on my neck and collarbones. "Not a - ?"

"Not any werewolves, no," I reply. "These are courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. Well, actually," I add as an afterthought, "I shouldn't give her too much credit, some other Death Eaters helped her out. A few of them are even You-Know-Who himself. But all the really big ones are from Bellatrix. They liked leaving scars, they do, marks that last forever."

"Well, it's obvious those scars are going to last for a while," Layla pipes up, brushing some of her curly hair out of her face, "but I don't know about forever. Forever might last a shorter time than you might think if those wounds are tended to properly, and, no offence, but a lot of them definitely aren't."

"None taken, I've always been pants at healing spells," I say, shrugging. "I tried finding creams and stuff to help, but..."

"Well, lucky for you, Layla happens to be, like, a healing goddess," Devon states, grinning. "She'll be able to fix you up real nice."

"I wouldn't say goddess," Layla says, looking slightly embarrassed, but smiling. "Maybe a demi-god, though."

I smile slightly, but turn to Layla somewhat hopefully, "You're... you're saying you could heal them?"

"I could try," she says. "I can't promise anything, though; it's obvious nasty Dark magic that they used on you, and we haven't got the best materials... only to help the more basic injuries, certainly not the kind of damage that the likes of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters would bring. Still, I could definitely help."

"That's fine," I say quickly. "That's more than fine, actually, thank you. And I've intruded enough already, I think, so I'll just leave after that..."

"Wait, what?" Felix says, removing his arms from behind his head and sitting up straighter, frowning at me. "Leave? What d'you mean, leave?"

"Exactly that," I say, not understanding what's complicated about this.

"Aren't you staying?" Devon says.

"I - I can't," I say. "I'm sure you've all had enough of me already, and I've got to find my friends, I promised them I - "

"Wait, Hazel, wait a moment," Grover says, actually holding up a hand to stop me. "Let's get a few things straight. Have you got any leads as to where Harry and the others might be? Any hints, anything?"

"Well - no - " I admit.

"Do you know where you'd look or them next?" Marina asks.

"Er - no, but - "

"So, basically, when you leave, you'll just be going from random place to random place, wandering around and looking as lost as you did when we found you?" Felix continues.

"Well - well, yes - but I wasn't - I wasn't  _lost_ \- "

"So why the hell do you want to leave so quickly?" Devon says, frowning and folding his arms.

"Because - because I have to find them! I have to do something! Otherwise I'll feel - I'll be - I'll just feel useless!" I say.

"You'll feel more useless if you leave than if you stay, considering you have no idea where to go to find them," Marina says. "Besides, do you think we're going to let you sit around all day and eat our food while Layla heals you? You can help us with our missions, can't you?"

"But - but - I don't want to intrude - I'm sure I'm bothering you - and you're on the run and staying hidden - wouldn't want to blow your cover - I'm - I'm Undesirable and all - "

"We've been managing just fine until now, everything won't go to shit with one more person on board, Undesirable or not," Layla says firmly. "Besides, it'll be better if you stay, that way I can take my time with fixing up your wounds."

I'm still unconvinced, still don't want to stay, and apparently it shows on my face, because Grover says, "Look, Hazel, I get that you want to find your friends, but you won't be any better off out there than you will be with us."

I look around at them, at each individual face, before sighing and sinking into the armchair across from Felix, looking down and rubbing my face blearily, before removing my hand from my face and looking up at them again.

"I'll stay - but only for a couple of days," I say. "Until I get a hold of myself and figure out a plan again."

"Brilliant," Grover says brightly, clapping his hands together and rubbing them together. "I'll get back to dinner, then, especially if we're cooking for more now - actually, Layla, could you come help me, you're better at this than the rest of us, you know..."

Layla glances over at me, then at Grover, and says, "Actually, Grove, I reckon I should focus on healing Hazel - "

"No, it's okay, go on ahead," I say, giving her a bracing smile. When she looks unconvinced, I say, "I've lasted this long, I can go for a little bit longer. Besides, we've got time, if I'm going to be staying for a while..."

She gives me one last uncertain look, before nodding and following Grover to the kitchen.

"And you might want to change for now," Marina adds, nodding at me. "No offence, but those clothes are in a right state. Have you got any spare clothes?"

"Uh, yeah, I've got something here," I say, grabbing my backpack and unzipping it.

"You can go change in there," Felix says, jerking his head over in the direction of the bathroom.

I nod once and walk across the tent to the bathroom. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn back to the others, an uncertain expression on my face.

"Are you sure it's fine if I st - " I begin, but they all cut me off, speaking in unison.

"Yes."

"Now go change," Layla adds, returning to her and Grover's cooking.

I give them all one last, sweeping uncertain look, before entering the bathroom of the place that it seems I'll be calling home - for a few days, at least.


	31. The Insurrectionary Squad

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Insurrectionary Squad**

 

I learn more and more about this unlikely group of people over the course of the next two days. Some things they tell me about, some things I learn from observing. The group moves around from place to place the way Harry, Hermione, Ron (while he had been there), and I had done, but they move less frequently than we did. This makes me a little uneasy, but they do have more protective enchantments than we do, and there are more wizards in the group than ours, all with more magical experience than us.

Grover is the peacekeeper of the group. Any two or more people arguing or fighting go to him if they want their problem solved quickly and fairly. He's easily the most non-violent person in the group, but that doesn't make him the least powerful. Devon tells me of a time when Grover managed to singlehandedly take out five Death Eaters without even breaking a sweat. His charming personality got him a lot of things, including any job he'd ever applied for, but what he really dreamed of was teaching Charms, which he had always been strongest in and loved more than any other subject in school. He'd grown up the oldest of three other siblings, meaning that he always felt a certain responsibility at home that stayed with him the rest of his life, and it shows in his behaviour, the way he seems to want to take care of everyone, the way he makes sure nobody leaves the vicinity without at least one person coming along and everyone else being perfectly aware of where they're going, the fact that he doesn't seem to be completely at ease until the two return.

Layla is easily the quietest of the group, so it's hard to find out more about her. But the first impression I get out of her, besides the fact that she's quiet, is that she's intelligent. Not only is she a healing goddess, as Devon put it (which she really is; it's only been a day and my injuries hurt a little less), but she's really good at every other aspect of magic except for Potions, speaks six languages in total (which I've heard has gotten them out of many sticky situations), and has a knowledge of the wizard world that I'm assuming is the result of being raised by an Auror like her uncle. But another thing that I'm sure is the result of being raised by an Auror is constant suspicions, paranoia, and observance. She doesn't talk much, but she listens. She watches. And I can tell from the look on her face as she does, that she calculates. She knows people, it's as though she sees right through them, and a result of this is that she can tell when people are lying. She proves this to me right at breakfast that second day. Grover had asked me how badly the scars hurt, and I told him that it wasn't too bad, so that Layla looked at me and said, deadpan, "Liar." I always catch her looking at Grover; not just glances, but long, admiring gazes, but whenever she looks away, I look away from her and act as though I haven't seen anything.

Felix makes up for the fact that Layla is weaker at Potions by being brilliant at it. Tell him to brew any potion, I'm told, and he'll do it and he'll do it perfectly, as long as he has the ingredients needed. As I'm told, you can search the skies and never be able to find a potion that Felix Nichols can't brew perfectly. Aside from being a genius at Potions, he's also an excellent guitar player and singer, and even played in a band for a while. When I look at him in disbelief at the news, he shrugs, gets a guitar from his bunk, and plays a few chords, singing the lyrics to a song that I'm assuming his band had written. Once I tell him that he's really good, he just shrugs, tossing his guitar back onto his bed.

"We were okay."

"You said you could've become world famous!" Devon says, looking at him incredulously.

"That's because we could've," Felix says.

"Why didn't you?" I ask.

"This war happened," Felix shrugs. "We decided it wasn't best to go around releasing music and touring with all this stuff going on. You know, there are  _priorities._ "

He insists that he doesn't miss it, that it was just a dumb band, anyway, but I think he does miss it, because he plays the guitar whenever he's bored and you can almost always catch him singing or humming some tune.

Felix is the most blunt of the group, but there are advantages to him being so forward; if things need to be done, they'll get done, and if things need to be said, then he'll say them in complete honesty. He's the most simple person in the group, but not in the sense that he's stupid; just that he doesn't see the point in having an overly complicated outlook on life. He sees things exactly for what they are and doesn't see the point of complicating anything unnecessarily, and that mindset is often what the rest of the group needs.

Marina had actually been born Nate, but as she tells me matter-of-factly, she didn't much fancy being a boy and decided that one day that the best course of action was to be a girl - being a Metamorphmagus was helpful to her in that sense. She was tough but not unkind, character traits that I'm assuming had been helped considering by her almost-imprisonment. All in all, when it comes to the difficult situations, everyone turns to Marina to hear what she thinks they should do next. This seems to be for a variety of reasons: one, she's the oldest of the group, and whether people like to admit it or not, the first instinct tends to be turning to the oldest person there. Still, she has experienced a lot in her years, learned how to get out of difficult situations, and nearly getting throw into Azkaban before escaping is only one of many, as I'm told. She doesn't elaborate, though, and I never press her. I get the feeling that I know what she's going through all too well. Marina is also dead clever, good at thinking on her feet, which always helps. She has also, as I'm told, read nearly every book known to man, and speaks four languages, which may not match up to Layla's six, but is still rather impressive to me, as I can only speak English and a handful of French words from Fleur. Besides English, she's most fluent in Japanese, her mother's tongue. She's also sent her family to live in Osaka, wanting to keep them away from the way. Other than that, though, I know nothing else about her. She seems particularly determined to keep herself closed off from me. I don't blame her.

Since Devon and I had known each other before, I mostly stick with him when I'm not being healed by Layla, or shown the ropes by Grover, Felix, or (occasionally) Marina. I learn more about Devon; so much, in fact, that I'm a little angry with myself for ever thinking I really knew him. He's the one that comes up with the main idea for all of their missions, the one who always outlines how exactly they'll go about waving whoever it is they plan on saving. He assigns roles for everyone, and even code names (Grover is the Charmed Wolf for his wolf-like qualities during the full moon, Marina is the Chameleon for her abilities as a Metamorphmagus, Layla is Apollo after the Greek god of medicine, Felix is the Dancing Dragon in memory of the rather embarrassing first name his band had given themselves, and Devon himself is the Eagle due to his pride as a former Ravenclaw). He's the best at blending in in a crowd, at coaxing information out of people quickly without arising suspicion, and at causing a distraction when one is needed at the last minute. Besides Grover, he's the hardest to make angry, but that only meant that when you finally succeeded at making him mad, it was damn near terrifying to witness; apparently, the others had only witnessed that sort of anger once, and had learn a very valuable lesson that day. He was expressive in his facial expressions, but never his words; he'd say how he felt without argument when prompted, but only when prompted. Any other time, it seemed he thought it would be burdensome. He's always scribbling things down on a notebook, and when I finally ask him why, he explains that he's writing down a list of things he wants to do after the war.

"I know there's a chance our side might fail and we'll be living this life forever," he admits, "but God, I just don't want to think about it. Making this list makes it seem like victory is more plausible, almost like it has to happen even more than it did already, because if it doesn't happen, how is all this stuff going to get done?"

He makes no protest to me looking at the list, and allows me to sit next to him and suggest ideas of things to do, a few of them even being things that we'll do together. I learn the most about him from that list, but the biggest is this: Devon is the optimist of the group, the voice insisting to  _relax, everything will turn out okay_ when it seemed like everything would turn out to be everything but okay.

"I have news, everyone!" Devon announces brightly, returning to the tent after being out on reconnaissance. "A group of Snatchers and a couple of bored Death Eaters are planning an attack on a bunch of Muggle-borns hiding away together in an apartment building in Bristol. They intend to strike three nights from now."

I sit up on my bunk, looking interested. Layla, who had been working on healing one of my scars, looks away from her work for the first time, giving Devon her attention instead.

"And why are you so damn cheery about it?" asks Marina, who had been playing around on Felix' guitar, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Oh, don't you use that tone on me, Kita," Devon rolls his eyes. "I'm Muggle-born, too, remember? Anyway, the reason I'm so  _damn cheery_ about it is because it's that group of Snatchers we've been after for months but always end up escaping."

"Really, now?" Marina says, sitting up straighter. "Then I think it's time to shut them down for good."

"Exactly my point," Devon nods.

"Er - sorry, new girl alert," I say, raising a hand. "Anyone care to explain who you're talking about?"

"There's this group of Snatchers we've been trying to do in for pretty much as long as we've been doing this," Grover explains. "And they've been trying to do us in for as long. Neither of us have succeeded. They're one of the more prominent Snatcher groups, so we think taking them down would be a pretty big victory."

I nod once. "Got any names?"

"We don't know everyone's names for sure," Layla replies. "But we've got the name of their leader and some of the more higher ranking members. The leader's called Adalina Blanchet, her second-in-command is called Frank Raymond, and there's his cousin, Victor Raymond, and his wife, Marie Raymond."

Every part of my body freezes completely. My heart stops, my blood running cold. This can't be happening. This cannot be happening. How could this be happening? Out of all the Snatchers out there, why did this group of people's archenemy have to be Adalina and her gang?

"Hazel?" Devon says. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Finding my voice with difficulty, I say, "I... I've... well, let's say that I've become acquainted with that group of Snatchers before."

"Really?" Felix says, interested. "When?"

I look at him, but I say nothing. For a moment, he looks confused; then, understanding settles into his face.

"Oh.  _Oh_. They - they're the one that captured you, aren't they?"

I only nod.

"Well, all the more reason to get revenge on them, isn't it?" Marina interjects, nodding once at me. "They tried to do me in once, too, before I found this lot."

I don't say anything to that.

"Do you want to do this, Hazel?" Grover asks, looking at me carefully. "If you don't think you can - "

"I do," I say abruptly. "I can. I'm not scared of them. Besides, you'll need as much help as you can get in taking them down. It's not like they only did what they did to me and Marina. Who knows how many people suffered because of them? How many more will suffer if we don't stop them? I want to make sure they never hurt anyone again."

"We can't force her not to do anything," Marina says, when Grover still looks unconvinced. "Besides," she turns to me, "take it from me when I say that the best way to deal with the things that scare you is to face it head on. Be careful, of course. We don't want you diving headfirst into trouble, but you can't run away."

"You're right," I agree. I glance at Grover warily, and say, "She's right. I can do this, Grover."

He lets out a sigh, nodding, "Okay, then. Let's get planning."

Devon rubs his hands together excitedly, a devious little smile on his face. "My three favourite words."

It takes the rest of the day and well into the next, but we finally come up with a solid plan. Devon and Marina will make their way into the building early in the morning, under the guise of being two Muggle-borns looking for refuge. Once there, they'll tell the Muggle-borns of the coming danger and make sure they all evacuate quickly and safely. Once there, they'll send a message to us telling us that the Muggle-borns are safely out of the way. The rest of us will make our way over, one at a time at irregular intervals, where we'll then set traps for the Snatchers. Once we're sure to have set up enough traps and distractions to keep the Snatchers and Death Eaters well and properly unfocused, we'll hide in different locations, each of us covering one of the floors, and wait for them to come.

"And if you find yourself in a bit of a difficult situation," Devon says wisely, "try and get in a nice kick in the shins and scream for help. One of us will be along before you know it."

The next day and a half are rather stressful, spent preparing to put our plan into action. The main source of stress is that, no matter what I tell Grover and the others, my heart speeds up and I break out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of being face to face with Adalina and her gang again. A list of things that could possibly go wrong all fly through my head, the horrible possibilities seemingly endless. They could recognise me, I could get caught again, I could be taken back to Malfoy manor, they could leave me to Greyback's mercy, I could be all of the others' downfall, simply because they were with and protecting Hazel Knight. All of these thoughts make me want to scream, but I force myself to stay calm and not let any of my fear show through, lest any of the others realise how scared I am and try to keep me from going. I have to make myself seem especially cheerful and outgoing just to put any doubts from their minds.

Periodically, one of them will shout someone's name and demand for them to go over the details of the plan, done to make sure that everyone has the plan practically carved permanently into their brain.

"We've done this for every single plan we've ever had, even the ones we ended up scrapping," Devon explains to me under his breath. "I'm nearly certain I could recite all of our plans word for word in order."

"Go on, then," I say, grinning.

He gives me a look, but cracks a smile and says, "How about a raincheck on that one?"

On the morning of the planned attack, we each recite the plan once more and make sure everything we need is in order. Devon and Marina then set off, moving outside the range of the protective enchantments before Disapparating together. The rest of us are left to wait, anxiety clawing up our throats. One of us is stationed outside, keeping watch, but we're all so worried and restless that we end up switching every twenty minutes, looking in vain for that silver Patronus bearing any news.

Finally, what feels like decades later but is really only a few hours, Layla, who had been keeping watch at the time, cries excitedly, "Look! Guys, come out here! It's the Patronus! It's a lion, that's Marina's Patronus, come out here!"

Grover, Felix, and I exchange looks, before racing out of the tent to stand by Layla, looking in the direction that she's pointing. Sure enough, a silver lion is racing towards us, it's every movement as graceful as Marina usually is. It slows to a stop a few feet in front of us, and it opens its mouth and speaks in Marina's voice, echoing slightly.

"Got everyone out alright. Coast is clear. Remember, come one at a time, and wait at least half an hour before sending the next person along, but don't make it regular either. Remember to come from the back, too. We'll see you soon."

With that, the Patronus dissolves into thin air. Grover, Felix, Layla, and I look at each other apprehensively for a moment, before Grover claps his hands together, smiling bracingly.

"Well, let's get this show on the road. Felix, you go first, then Layla, then Hazel," he says. "I'll go last, as usual. I'll just clear everything out and take down the enchantments and show up."

Felix nods, saying, "See you all on the other side, then."

He walks until he's just outside the range of the protective enchantments, turns on the spot, and with a small  _pop_ , Disapparates.

Silence falls among us, before Layla says, "We should help you pack up, Grove. Give you less to do when it's just you left."

"Good idea," I say.

The three of us duck into the tent. I head over to my bunk, shoving all the things strewn across it into the black bag. When I open it, I see the murky canvas of Sir Phineas' portrait, and I realise with a pang that it's been a while since I've spoken to him. Making a mental note to talk to him after we get back (because we  _will_ get back, I've convinced myself of it), I close the bag and throw it over my shoulder.

A while later, Grover checks his watch and says, biting his lip, "Layla, you should go now. It's been a little over forty minutes."

She nods, and the three of us head back outside the tent. She makes to walk towards the edge of the protective enchantments, but then glances over at me and says, "Grover, maybe Hazel should come with me. She's never been on one of our missions before, she should have a friend along with her just in case."

"Good idea," Grover says, looking relieved at the idea. "What do you think, Hazel?"

For a moment, two parts of myself are at war with each other. One part of me is angry at the assumption that I don't know how to handle myself, that I need someone to protect me to get by, when I've only had myself for protection for over two months now. The other part of me is relieved at Layla's suggestion, because truth be told, the idea of not always having to watch my own back, of having someone else that's on my side that can do more than yell at me from their portrait is comforting. Not to mention, the idea of facing Adalina and her gang again still scare me more than I care to admit.

Finally, I just say, "Yeah, sure. Sounds fine."

Layla grins, her smile as warm and welcoming as ever. "Great! Follow me."

With that, she leads the way through the wooded area, until we're just outside the range of the group's protective enchantments. We turn around to look at Grover, standing alone at the mouth of the tent. He waves at us, a gesture we return. Layla lowers her arm and holds it out for me to take. After a moment of hesitation, I grip onto her forearm. She twists on the spot, and the pressing tightness of Disapparation takes over.

When we land on solid ground again, it's pavement beneath my feet. I look around me, straining my ears to hear any noise besides the sound of rushing cars and the buzz of talking. We're leaning against the wall in the middle of a shadowy alleyway. Water is trickling into the sewers nearby, and people walk past us without a glance our way. Layla lets go of my hand, nodding at me, and leads the way to the end of the alley, where a fence stands. Without hesitation, Layla climbs to the top of the fence, jumping off and landing gracefully on the other side.

"Come on, then," she says, when I do nothing. I climb up the fence, scrambling slightly, before half-jumping, half-falling off of it, and barely managing to land on both feet on the other side. Layla raises an eyebrow. "I always thought you were exaggerating when you talked about how clumsy you were. I suppose I was wrong."

"Well," I say, a little sheepishly, remembering to put on my Yorkshire accent now that we're in public again, "glad to have enlightened you. So, to the building, then?"

Layla just nods, before leading the way up two streets, before turning a corner. The reason we can't Apparate right inside or by the building is to avoid suspicion, just in case the Snatchers are watching. The best course of action is to look as innocent as possible. Layla and I stand across the street from the building, loitering for a time, before finally crossing the street.

The building is made of grey bricks, small in comparison to other towering buildings nearby, with a wilting, rundown little garden in the front. It's the sort of building people tend to not pay attention to, walking right on past it, except when spending a moment or two to remark on how sad the place looks. A rather nice place to hide, if only you weren't hiding from people who were eager to find you.

We walk around until we reach the rusting, metal backdoor. Layla takes out her wand and drums out the beat to  _Do the Hippogriff_ by the Weird Sisters, the password we decided on. Nobody answers right away, and we wait with baited breath. In the meanwhile, I list every possible thing that might go wrong, unable to help myself. The Snatchers have gotten to them and they're waiting for the right moment to strike, the group are all Snatchers and have been waiting for exactly the right moment to take me back to the Death Eaters for a nice little reward, or - 

I don't have any time to think of any more scenarios, because the door swings open to reveal Devon and Felix, pointing their wands directly at our faces. Layla rolls her eyes at the side, looking impatient.

"Come on, now," she says, batting Devon's wand away from where it's aimed right between her eyebrows. "If we were Death Eaters or Snatchers, you'd have known by now."

"Ah, yes, that good old-fashioned snark," Devon says, raising his eyebrows, as he and felix step away to make room for us. "That's definitely Layla."

"I have to admit, though, it's so weird seeing you in disguise after seeing who you really are, Ha - " Felix begins; he's the most open and honest of the group, but the problem with this is that he usually doesn't realise when not to be so open.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," I say threateningly, stepping inside and giving him a warning look.

"Oh, right, sorry, mate," he says, looking sheepish.

"Well, we've evacuated the Muggle-borns safely, as we've told you, and we've taken a look around the building," Devon says bracingly, clapping his hands together. "We haven't set up any traps, though, obviously, since we're waiting for the whole gang to be here. C'mon, we can show you around. I expect by the time we're done, Grover will have shown up and we can really get to work."

"Where's Marina?" Layla asks, looking around the room and frowning.

"She's still having a look around," Felix replies. "Wants to see if there's anything we missed the first time."

"I was, anyway," she says, appearing in a doorway and looking at us with her arms crossed. "The lot of you are so loud I could hardly focus."

"It's not our fault your ridiculously sensitive ears can pick up the sound of any sort of noise," Devon insists. "Anyway, did you find anything else?"

"I think I was onto something, until the lot of you started screaming about God knows what," Marina replies.

"Well, we can go check it out now," Layla suggests. "Come on."

With that, Devon, Felix, and Marina lead us around the building, showing us everything they've learned so far that we can use to our advantage, things we'll have to look out for when we're fighting the Snatchers. Layla and I point out a few things ourselves that the others hadn't noticed before. As Devon had said, by the time we're done, we hear the beat of  _Do the Hippogriff_ being tapped out a few floors down, indicating Grover's arrival. Once we open the door and confirm that is really is him, we show him around the building and get to work, setting up traps for the Snatchers and figuring out who will go where. There are six floors in total, so each of us will be in charge of a floor, taking down the Snatchers and Death Eaters on that floor. After that, we'll regroup on the third floor and sort out what we will do with them.

By the time we're finished setting out the traps and getting everything figured out, night has fallen, so we all hasten to get to our positions. I climb up to the sixth floor, my designated floor, and hide in a shadowy, cramped cupboard with a hole in the door just big enough to see what is happening on the other side. I pull out my Cross of Elements from my boot and slip it on my finger, figuring the extra boost might come in handy. Indeed, the surge of magic that courses through me is a very welcomed feeling.

The Snatchers and the Death Eaters are supposed to strike some time around midnight. I have no idea what time it is now. I think mournfully of the watch George had given me years (but it really felt like centuries) ago for my birthday. I had forgotten to bring it with me - or, well, I had forgotten to wear it the day of the wedding, and I hadn't exactly had the chance to go back for it before we left, with the Death Eaters attacking and needing to make a quick getaway and everything. It's rather weird to think about, that I had remembered to bring along all sorts of things, thick books and strange magical objects, but I couldn't remember the bring something as simple as a watch.

Before I can think too much about this, I hear muffled noises. I inhale sharply, tensing, my hand on the doorknob, ready to spring out and start firing curses at any moment. A few heavy, silent moments later, I dismiss the idea of it being one of the others. I would have known by now if it was. Surely the Muggle-borns wouldn't be stupid enough to come back, would they? No, it must be the Snatchers. But where are they? As far as they know, the Muggle-borns are sound asleep, ready to be kidnapped and shipped off to Azkaban. What are they waiting for? Do they know we're here? What if - 

Before I can think too much on all the things that could go wrong, there's the sounds of windows shattering to my left and right. I wait when I hear the sound of rushing footsteps, until sure enough, the noise is abruptly cut off, replaced with the sound of strangles cries, as the traps come into effect.

"What's going on?" a voice cries out, and my blood runs cold. "Where did these traps come from? Do they know we're here? How could they have known?"

Adalina.

I force myself to control my breathing, to keep my fear at bay. What had I been expecting? I knew it was going to be her gang of Snatchers, and that there was a good chance I would be duelling her. Maybe I'm just not as ready as I thought I'd be. But that doesn't matter. There they are, and here I am. There's going back.

I lean forward to look at what's going on in the corridor through the hole in the door. Besides Adalina, there's about five of them in all, three of whom are caught in the traps we left. I need to strike soon, before they manage to get out of those traps and I'm fighting six Snatchers at once instead of three. I take one last deep breath, steadying myself. I tighten my grip on my wand, channelling the extra energy from the ring, before flinging the door open and bursting outside.

"Come on, Adalina, think a little quicker, won't you?" I say, smiling, glancing at the Snatchers on either side of me.

Her eyes widen, raising her wand, saying, "Who the hell - ?"

I don't let her finish. Waving my hand, I send a blast of air in her direction, sending her flying back and slamming against the wall, right next to the broken window through which she had come. Her wand goes flying from her hand, finally coming to a stop near my foot. The two Snatchers on the other side of me raise their wands to attack. I raise my own wand, but they both fire curses before I can do something. I duck, and one Snatcher's flash of red soars out the open window, while the other's green Killing Curse misses Adalina's head by inches. I pick up Adalina's wand, stuffing it in the pocket of my robes, before straightening up, glancing down and realising the floor is made of limestone. Smirking slightly, raising my wands upward, I make the floor beneath the two Snatchers just upward like two, long raised platforms, so quickly that they threaten to lose balance. I conjured up a wave of water to hit them, causing them to lose balance completely and topple over. I bring the two columns back down, levelling the floor again. With a wave of my wand, they fly over to Adalina, landing with a thud on top of her before she can get up again.

I turn to see that one of the Snatchers stuck in the trap is starting to escape and point my wand at her, thinking,  _Stupefy!_ The Snatcher goes limp. With another airy wave of my wand, she goes flying and lands on top of the growing pile of Snatchers. I walk slowly towards the other two Snatchers, side by side, straining against their traps. I Stun each of them in turn, before freeing them from their traps and sending them, one on top of the other, onto the pile.

I walk towards them, crouching down in front of them. Adalina and the two Snatchers I had taken out first are still awake, but dazed. I raise my wand, waving it and thinking  _Incarcerous_ , and tight ropes bound themselves around the groups of Snatchers.

"I wouldn't move," I tell them calmly, in spite of my racing heart. "The more you move, the more the rope burns."

"Who are you?" Adalina demands, slurring her words slightly.

"Come on, Adalina, think a little quicker, won't you?" I repeat, now in my regular voice, speaking quieter. "Who else do you know that can do what I just did?"

At first, she just looks confused; then, realisation dawns on her face. " _You_ \- "

"Me," I agree, point my wand at her face, and say, " _Stupefy!_ "

She slumps, sinking further down. I stun the only two Snatchers still conscious, and get to my feet, wiping the dust from my robes. I strain my ears, listening for any noise coming from the floors down below, but find only complete silence. I point my wand at the tied up Snatchers and think  _Wingardium Leviosa_. They lift into the air, and keeping them floating in the air, I lead them down the hall and down the stairs, intending to meet with the rest of the group on the third floor as planned.

On the fifth floor, I keep my hand outstretched, expecting to be ambushed at any moment. When nothing happens, however, even as I check every nook and cranny before moving downstairs, I have to assume that the coast is clear and that Marina was able to handle the Snatchers. It's the same case for the fourth floor, so I assume that Devon defeated his attackers. When I reach the third floor, I see the group assembled, except for Felix, guarding a group of seemingly unconscious Snatchers and Death Eaters. They look up at the sound of my footsteps.

"Hey, Houdini," Devon says, grinning. "Glad to see you've made it out alright. Excellent," he adds, noticing the floating Snatchers, "you've brought friends."

"Something like that," I say. "Houdini?"

"Your code name, of course," Devon explains, as though this should be obvious. "You know, you can escape anything."

"Right," I say, though I am rather pleased that I'm accepted enough to have a nickname. "Where's Fe - er, I mean, the Dancing Dragon. Is he alright?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's handling the floor below still," Marina says casually.

"Er - shouldn't we be helping him instead of just standing around?" I say, looking around at them uncertainly.

"For the LAST BLOODY TIME," Felix's voice sounds from upstairs, loud and very clearly irritated, "I - am - FINE! I'll be up before you know it. I have everything UNDER CONTROL!"

"And there you have it," Grover says calmly.

"And we're just going to... take his word for it? We're not even going to go down to check on him?" I say disbelieving.

"YES! THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO BLOODY DO - OI! YOU BASTARD, DON'T YOU DARE RUN!"

"This has happened before," Layla explains to me lowly. "Felix sometimes takes a little while to take care of enemies during a duel, but don't worry, he gets the job done."

"And none of you are remotely worried?" I say, raising my eyebrows.

"Look, the fact that he's still screaming at the tip of his voice is proof that he's fine," Marina explains. "If he was in trouble, it'd be dead silent down there. Trust us, alright?"

Deciding against telling them that it was right difficult for me to trust people I barely knew during times like these, I just nod and place the Snatchers I'd defeated none too gently on top of the pile of Snatchers among them. The assembled group studies them with interest.

"You took care of Adalina, did you?" Grover says, raising his eyebrows. "That's rather impressive."

I shrug, folding my arms and listening carefully to Felix's shouting below for reassurance. "It wasn't exactly a huge, epic battle, honestly."

"A victory's a victory," Grover points out.

"I don't think I'll quite classify it as a victory until Felix comes up with his Snatchers defeated and we figure out what to do with the lot of them."

At that precise moment, a triumphant "AHA!" sounds from downstairs, followed shortly by someone whistling the tune to what I recognise as one of Felix's band's songs and the sound of footsteps bounding up the stairs. Felix strides into the hall, followed by a gloating group of tied up, unconscious Snatchers and Death Eaters. I smile slightly in relief.

"Told you I had it covered," he says brightly, sending the Snatchers flying towards the pile with a lazy flick of his wand.

"You sure did, Dancing Dragon," Devon says, shooting me a knowing look. "See, now Houdini here - " he points at me in order to make it perfectly clear to Felix that I'm Houdini - "raised a good point. What the hell are we going to do with this lot?" he pokes one of the limp Snatchers in the arm with the toe of his boots. "I think we've spent too long trying to figure out how we'd beat them that we never figured out what we'd do  _after._ "

"Let me take this moment to remind everyone of our very strict no killing policy," Grover adds. "If we kill them, that  _makes_ us them."

"Well," I pipe up. "Can I suggest that we wipe their memories? In the heat of the moment, I kind of gave away my real identity."

"Then wiping their memories is a really good idea," Marina nods. "Then how about we send them to the nearest boat to Azkaban? The Dementors don't care so long as they have souls to feed on, hopefully nobody important realises where they've gone for a while, and it's not like they don't deserve it."

"Fair enough," Grover agrees. "Are we all in agreement, then?" When everyone nods, he says, "Then let's get to work. I suspect by the time they've all woken up, they'll already be in a cell in Azkaban."

And within thirty minutes, the Death Eaters and Snatchers, still passed out, are on a boat just large enough to host the lot of them, their memories wiped and their destination the rocky shore of Azkaban.

 

***

 

The next morning, Felix and Layla stride into the tent, Felix holding up a copy of the Daily Prophet. "You lot will never believe this - they wrote about us!"

"What?" Devon, Grover, Marina and I say at once.

"Look!" Felix says, shoving the paper to me, as I'm closest. Devon, Grover, and Marina gather round to read it over my shoulder.

_DELINQUENT ATTACK DONE BY BLOOD-TRAITORS IN BRISTOL_

_Late last night, March 7th, an attack was made by blood-traitors in a rundown building in the city of Bristol. The attack was made on a benevolent group of individuals meaning to escort the Mudbloods attempting to evade justice by hiding in the building to Azkaban._

_These individuals, part of a much larger group with the crude nickname of 'Snatchers' have not yet been found, but Ministry officials can confirm that full measures are being taken to locate them. Ministry officials can also confirm that full measures are being taken to locate the blood-traitors guilty for this crime in order to bring them to justice._

_"It's clear that this... insurrectionary squad are determined to bring chaos and disturb the peace we are trying to maintain," says Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Walter Yaxley. "This will not be tolerated whatsoever, and these newly made Undesirables will suffer dearly for their actions."_

_Little information is known about these Undesirables, except that there are six of them in total, and they go by the nicknames: the Chameleon, the Dancing Dragon, Houdini, the Charmed Wolf, the Eagle, and Apollo. More information will be released as discovered to ensure that citizens can be more prepared to protect themselves from these delinquents, Yaxley confirms._

_This incident serves as a wake-up call to those who do not believe that blood-traitors are just as dangerous in our society as Mudbloods. In the meanwhile, stay alert and report any potential sightings of this "insurrectionary squad" to the authorities._

A moment of silence follows finishing the article.

"Holy shit," Marina finally says in an awed whisper, saying what everyone is thinking.

"Holy shit is right," Grover says, a little grimly. "We're going to have to be very careful from now on."

"They haven't found the Snatchers yet," Layla murmurs, her brow furrowed. "My uncle was right, the Auror office really is complete shite now. Has it even occurred to them to check Azkaban?"

"They must think they're looking for a body," Marina points out. "They think we murdered them, and why shouldn't they think so? It's what they would've done to us."

"How did they get our numbers, though?" I frown. "Or our code names, for that matter?"

"Maybe we were a little less careful than we thought," Felix says. "Goes back to what Grover said, doesn't it? We'll just have to watch our step a little more."

"How about what this Yaxley bloke calls us, though," Felix says. "The Insurrectionary Squad - that's a right good name, isn't it?"

"Makes us sound real badass, I'll admit," Marina says. "A much better name than the  _Back Snatchers,_ at least."

"I still stand by what I said," I say, raising my eyebrows.

"As do I," Felix says. "But Insurrectionary Squad definitely sounds cooler."

"Well, glad we've got a group name," Layla says. "Doesn't change that the Ministry is on our tail and made us Undesirables."

"Look, as long as they don't get actual names or physical descriptions or anything, we're fine," Devon insists. "It's not like anyone's going to look at us and immediately know that we must be the people they're talking about here because there's six of us. And no one's going to look at you and think,  _oh, your nickname must be Apollo_. We just need to be more careful is all."

A slight silence at that, until something dawns on me.

"Wait a minute," I say slowly. "If they've made us Undesirables, that makes me an Undesirable twice over."

"Suppose so," Felix says thoughtfully. "Congratulations! How many people can say they pissed You-Know-Who and the Ministry off that bad  _twice?_ "

"Yeah," I say, raising my eyebrows, but smiling slightly. "Pissing the bad guys off has sort of become my speciality."

"And speaking of news," Devon says, straightening up and checking his watch, "Potterwatch will be on any minute."

"Oh, right!" Layla said, brightening up slightly. "I forgot all about it."

I look around at the excited faces as Devon walks over to the radio and starts fiddling with the dials, feeling like I'm confused on something that should be very clear to me.

"Er - new girl alert again," I say. "What the hell is Potterwatch? Is it something to do with Harry? If it is, I'm a little angry you lot neglected to tell me about it when you know I'm looking for him."

"It has to do with Harry, but not the way you're thinking," Grover assures me. " _Potterwatch_ is an underground radio show, the only one left that hasn't been taken over by the Ministry, and in extension, You-Know-Who. It's pretty much the radio version of the  _Quibbler_ , in that they speak the truth, and not the bullshit propaganda the other papers and stations are putting out. The only reason it's called  _Potterwatch_ is because he's sort of become the symbol of the rebellion, hasn't he?"

" _Potterwatch_ might become even more important than the  _Quibbler_ pretty soon," Marina adds, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. " _Potterwatch_ is still going strong, but how long has it been since old Xeno Lovegood put out any more issues of the  _Quibbler_?"

"He has a daughter," I blurt out, feeling oddly compelled to defend a man I barely know. "Xenophilius Lovegood, I mean. Her name's Luna. She's a year younger than I am, so she's still in school. He might be scared about what'll happen to his daughter if he keeps going against the Ministry. Besides, it must be easier to find out who's running a newspaper than some underground radio show."

"Right you are," Devon agrees, still twisting the dials in concentration. "They make it right hard to be able to listen. There's a new password every week, and you need the password to listen, otherwise it's just static."

"Who runs it?" I ask, slightly impressed by whoever it is.

At that, Devon looks up and gives me a devious smile and a wink. "They keep their identities a secret, for obvious reasons, but trust me,  _you'll_ know when you hear them. There we go - I'm on the right station. What did they say the password was this week again? Moody? No, that was two weeks ago. Diggory? No, that was one of the first ones. Oh - right - Fawkes!"

At that moment, the radio abruptly switches from playing static to the crisp, clear sound of a person's voice.

"Hello and welcome to Potterwatch!" a voice says, and my whole body freezes.

"Is that who I think it is?" I say, thought I know it is.

"If you're listening to this, then you tuned in last week and got our password, or you heard from a friend who did and decided to tune in. Or maybe the Ministry has better spies than we thought... but since we all know the Ministry doesn't have two brain cells to rub together, we're going to assume it's the first two," the voice says, and I rush over to the radio and kneel in front of it beside Devon, as though being closer to it means being closer to him. Closer to - 

"Fred," I breathe, a smile crossing my face automatically as I say it. I can't remember the last time I've actually said his name out loud. Somehow, just saying it, even if there's so much distance between us, makes me feel better.

"Er - care to explain?" Marina says, looking lost.

"Fred Weasley," Devon elaborates, "is Hazel's boyfriend."

I'm so beside myself with joy that I don't bother to inform them that I broke up with him. I'm so beside myself with joy that the thought doesn't even cross my mind.

"How do you know it's Fred or George?" Marina asks, looking surprised. "I thought everyone always gets it mixed up?"

"They do," Devon replies. "She always knows, though."

"No, this is Fred," I insist, hanging onto every word.

"Now, before we begin, we must formally apologise for making you all wait longer than usual for a new broadcast. Though the Ministry doesn't have two brain cells to rub together, we still need to make sure they don't get on our trail. I never thought I'd say it, but better safe than sorry," a new voice says, and I smile even wider.

" _That's_ George," I say happily.

"How can you tell?" Felix says.

"You have to pay really close attention at first, but then it's obvious," I shrug. "Fred's voice is a little deeper, his accent's a little thicker. George's voice has got a sort of lilt to it, it makes him sound more like his father than Fred does - I suppose you've never heard their father speak, but... you just have to pay attention."

"Unfortunately, as with every broadcast, I have grim news to deliver," says Fred. "More deaths have been reported since we last left you. Less than usual, but still too many. Alexander Belle, killed for not adhering to Muggle-born registration; Daniel Grande, killed for trying to protect the Muggles during one of the Death Eater's Muggle killings. Corinne Donnell, killed for simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time and running into a group of Snatchers. Florence Steward, killed while trying to protect her family after they had targeted them for the music she had been writing about rebelling against You-Know-Who's regime. And finally - " Fred pauses abruptly, and there is silence for so long that I wonder if they radio cut out - "finally... Hazel - Hazel Knight was killed while being questioned and tortured by Death Eaters."

My heart drops. He thinks I'm dead. The realisation hits me all over again at his words, at the way his voice shakes as he says my name. He thinks I'm dead and he hasn't moved on. He thinks I'm dead and he loves me.

"Fred," I murmur desperately, as though he can hear me through the radio. "Fred, please. I'm not dead - it didn't work - they didn't kill me - I'm not dead, Fred, I'm fine, I'm fine, please."

Since Fred can't hear me, he continues on after another pause, taking a shaky breath, as though steeling himself. "If you've read the papers, you'll know that Hazel was close with Harry Potter and was presumably helping him on his mission to stop You-Know-Who. How they ended up getting split up or how Harry or anyone else associated with him is doing, we don't know, but we do know that Hazel was good and kind and brilliant and... many other things. Our condolences go out to any of H-Hazel's loved ones, and the loved ones of the victims we mentioned before. We'll have a moment of silence for them now."

Silence falls on both sides of the radio. All I can think about is the tremor in Fred's voice as he tried to give details about my death.

 _Fred, please don't think I'm dead,_ I think desperately, bringing my knees up to my chest and hugging them.  _Fred, George, Ginny, Remus, Harry, Ron, Hermione, everyone, please, please don't think I'm dead._

"Now, let's get on with the rest of the news, shall we?" George said, once the moment of silence is over, though he still sounds upset himself, making me feel even worse. "We can't seem to get away from the Death Eaters and the Snatchers and the Ministry, but there still haven't been any sightings of You-Know-Who himself - though there are rumours that he's gone abroad."

"Which makes loads of sense," Fred jumps in, clearly trying to recover, but I can still hear that waver in his voice that breaks my heart into tiny pieces. "Who wouldn't want to have a nice little holiday after all that hard work it takes to become an evil overlord?"

In spite of myself, I let out a laugh at that.

"That's exactly right," said a new voice, and I start from excitement in spite of myself.

"That's Lee Jordan!" I burst out excitedly.

"Is it?" Devon says, interested. "See, I thought so, but I wasn't completely sure..."

"I'm sure I'd want some me time after something like that," Lee says. "God knows I want some me time now."

"Right you are, River," George says, 'River' presumably being Lee's code name. "And for good reason, too. The Ministry and their lack of brain cells these days can be an exhausting thing, can't they, Rodent?"

"Rodent?" Fred repeats indignantly. "For the last time, I told you I wanted to be  _Rapier_ \- "

"Fine, fine, Rapier, then," Lee says. "Though I still think you should've gone with Whiny Baby."

"Still would've been better than  _River_ ," Fred retorts, and I keep laughing, bringing a hand to my mouth to stop myself. " _Moving on_ , we're not the only ones who are tired of the Ministry and the Snatchers and the Death Eaters. A group of nameless people who go by the code names of the Charmed Wolf, the Chameleon, the Eagle, Houdini, the Dancing Dragon, and Apollo, given the rather impressive name of the Insurrectionary Squad by the Ministry, have made moves against the Snatchers, overtaking a large group of Snatchers who had been doing all sorts of harm against Muggles and Muggle-borns. We've since learned that they've made smaller moves against the Snatchers before, including saving the Muggle-borns that they have tried to kill or send to Azkaban, but this is their first big move, taking down the group of Snatchers themselves. What the current state of those Snatchers is still unknown, but regardless, we applaud the Insurrectionary Squad for their actions and their bravery."

"Hey, look at that, they're talking about us, too!" Felix said. "Damn, we're bloody heroes, aren't we?"

"If anyone deserves a nice little holiday, it'll be them," George says wisely. "Who knows, they might even run into You-Know-Who and do him in, too."

"Let's not get carried away, Tentacula," Fred advises him. "Otherwise in two days we'll have rumours saying You-Know-Who dragged them away to his evil lair in Albania."

"Rode - I mean,  _Rapier_ \- brings up an excellent point," Lee says. "Look, everybody, times have been scary enough without people making up rumours to freak people out even more. We've been trying our hardest to make sure everything we say are the facts, and if we're not certain, we're sure to tell you that. We encourage everyone to follow our lead."

They continue talking, bringing up news that I listen to avidly, glad to hear the facts that aren't distorted by the Ministry and Voldemort, just glad to hear their voices in general.

"And that brings us to the end of another  _Potterwatch_ ," Lee says finally. "Thanks for listening. As usual, we don't know exactly when we'll be back, but I can promise you this isn't the end. Next password with be 'Hazey.' Keep fiddling with those dials, keep safe, and keep faith. Goodnight."

With that, the show cuts out. I don't know whether to smile or cry. " _Next password will be 'Hazey.'_ "

"Hazy?" Marina repeats, frowning. "As in weather?"

"No," I say quietly. "As in the nickname Fred used to call me."

"Oh, blimey," Marina says. "They really loved you, didn't they?"

"Something like that," I say, getting to my feet and sitting down on one of the armchairs. "The show's brilliant, though - of course it is, it's them. It's been so long since I've heard their voices... just hearing them... knowing they're alive... that helped."

"You'll see them soon," Grover assures me, smiling. "You will."

"I hope so," I say, smiling faintly.

Suddenly, some loud pop song I don't recognise starts playing, and we all jump, our heads snapping towards the radio and Devon, who sits with a guilty expression.

"Sorry, sorry!" he says immediately, twiddling with the dials to lower the volume. "I was just messing around with the dials - I hardly realised what I was doing - and then - well - this!"

He gestures around vaguely.

"Not a bad song, though," Layla speaks up. "turn it up."

"But - " Devon glances over at me.

"I'm not against music, Devon," I say. "Turn it up."

Finally, Devon turns up the volume, and Layla gets to her feet promptly and starts dancing. She's not a bad dancer, moving in time to the music, even if her moves are a little ridiculous. Soon, Felix gets up and joins her, and they pretend to waltz around the room together, laughing and singing along to the words. Laughing as he watches them, Grover waves his wand at the table, moving it to the side to allow them more room in the middle of the tent. Marina claps in time to the beat, and soon I join her, grinning as I watch them.

"Alright, that's it, make room for me," Devon declares, jumping to his feet and dancing to the middle of the tent. Felix and Layla break apart to allow him to join, the three of them dancing together.

Soon, Grover gets to his feet, walking over and offering a hand to Marina. After a moment of hesitation, she smiles and takes it, and the two of them waltz around the room to a pop song, laughing and not seeming to care at all that the style of dancing doesn't match the music at all. I sit back, smiling and still clapping in time of the group, content to just watch. Devon, however, has other ideas; he dances over to me and extends a hand, watching me expectantly.

"Come on, Houdini," he says. "Dance."

"Oh, no, that's fine - I'm not all that great of a dancer - I'm fine just watching - " I begin, but Devon grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet, dragging me over to the others.

Smiling slightly, I start dancing. Soon, I go from shy to bolder, until I'm dancing around the tent with the others, laughing and singing along to the words that I didn't even know until a few seconds ago. The songs change, but we keep dancing together, and for a moment, I'm not an Undesirable twice over. I'm a seventeen year-old girl, dancing along with her slightly strange, ragtag group of friends, and just for that moment, that's all that matters.


	32. The Attack

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Two: The Attack**

 

I go on more missions with the Insurrectionary Squad (the name sticks and none of us can quite shake it) as the days pas. On one particularly memorable occasion, we had rigged a bridge with explosives to keep the Snatchers as far away from the Muggle-borns as physically possible so we could Disapparate and take them to safety more easily. I had been at the side of the bridge closest to where the Snatchers stood, responsible for provoking them and luring them into our trap.

"Come on," I was calling out in my put-on Yorkshire accent. "If you lot think you're so tough, come fight me! See what happens to you and your little friends then!"

In spite of what my words made it sound like, this group of Snatchers wasn't comprised of three or four small schoolchildren. There was around fifteen of them in all, and most of them weren't quite so little. Still, I was slightly comforted by the fact that there was no real duelling to do with them, except for dodging and blocking their curses.

"Really?" I called out tauntingly. "The best you can do? No wonder you've all got such a bad rep. At this rate, the Dark Lord will never respect you! And quite honestly, who can blame him Look at the lot of you, just pathetic - "

That comment pushed a few of them over the edge, breaking ranks to race towards me, and once they started, they all did, running towards me, shouting incomprehensibly. I didn't waste a moment, turning around and breaking into a run. I waited until they had all set foot on the bridge, before waving my wand and lighting the first fuse at the very end of the bridge.

The reaction was immediate; in a series of sparks, the bridge began to crumble, and I sped up, ducking from their curses. The Snatchers, realising what I had done, let out different cries of shock, and sped up themselves, no longer trying to curse me and instead focusing on running faster than the bridge can collapse. In the end, they were not fast enough, the bridge collapsing beneath their feet. I didn't dare feel relieved, running faster than ever, feeling the bridge begin to disintegrate beneath me. For one bizarre moment, I had imagined if my physical education teacher in Muggle school would have said if she saw how fast I was running then, and had the circumstances been different, would have laughed at the thought. Now I only kept running, trying not to panic as I realised that I was only one step too slow from dropping to the bottom myself.

About ten feet away from the other side of the bridge, where the others and the Muggle-borns stood waiting for me, I realised that even I had been too slow. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, before using my last second on solid ground to push myself up into the air, using my power with wind to propel me upwards and forwards. Just as I did, the ground that I had been standing on moments ago crumbled, pieces of the bridge falling to the ground below. I had reached out desperately, trying to reach the other side of the bridge, but I fell just an inch short, unable to grasp onto the edge of the cliff, the others screaming when they saw me begin to fall. I did, however, manage to grab onto the rope that used to support the bridge, now hanging loosely off the side of the cliff. When I realised I was no longer plummeting to the ground, I let out a sigh of relief, before beginning to climb up the rope, pulling myself up with difficulty, trying to ignore the fatigue that was becoming more and more overwhelming.

Finally, I took one hand off of the rope and managed to get a grip on the edge of the cliff. I pushed myself up enough to place my other hand on the ground, before managing to get one leg up, then another. When I was finally safely on solid ground, I let out a strangled cry of relief, rolling over and lying on the ground, half-laughing, half-wheezing from running so hard. I closed my eyes, stretching out my arms on either side of me. I could hear the others rushing towards me, but kept my eyes closed regardless.

"Blimey!" I had heard Marina's voice somewhere to my left. "We all thought you were dead for a moment there. I can't believe you survived that!"

"Yeah," I said, heaving a deep breath and opening my eyes again, pushing myself up and looking around at Marina, Devon, Felix, Layla, and Grover. "I'm quite good at that, aren't I?  _Surviving_."

A little shaky, I managed to push myself to my feet, looking at the assembled Muggle-borns, who stood huddled close together, staring at us, wide-eyed.

"Right," I had said briskly, clapping my hands together. "Let's get you all to safety, then, yeah?"

It's one of the many memories I have formed with them over the course of our time together. Though I always knew us travelling together isn't a long term thing, I can't help but feel sad at the thought that we'd have to part ways soon. They didn't need to take me in, didn't need to show me any kindness at all, but they had gone above and beyond, and I couldn't be more grateful. I hadn't quite realised it when I had first met them, but after my time at Malfoy Manor, a group like them had been exactly what I needed. I convey this to them at breakfast one day, trying to keep the message brief by my meaning genuine.

"Hazel," Grover says, looking at me suspiciously, "it sounds awfully like you're about to announce you're leaving us tonight."

"Well, I wasn't going to announce that," I reply, "but it's a fair point. As much as I appreciate you all and everything you've done for me, this can't go on forever. I have to find my friends again. I promised I'd help Harry with what he has to do, and I can't abandon him. Besides, as you might have noticed, the world thinks I'm dead. That means other people that I care about think I'm dead. I have to find them and let them know that I'm still breathing."

"Well, do you know where you're going after you leave us?" he asks.

"Well... not exactly," I admit. "But I just need to retrace my steps and think a little harder ad I'm sure I'll come up with something - "

"Didn't you say you had already retraced all your steps when you found us?" Marina asks, eyebrows raised.

"Well... yes, but I think I just need to - "

"Hazel, we told you once, and we'll tell you again," Layla cuts in firmly. "We're not going to force you to stay, but there's no point in wandering around as lost as you were when we first met when you could stay and travel with us for a little longer. There's safety in numbers, and if anything's important right now, it's staying safe."

 _More people doesn't always guarantee safety,_ I think.  _I wasn't alone when the Snatchers got me._

All I say is, "Look, I'm not saying I'm leaving within the hour. And I'm not saying that I don't want to stay with you, because you've all been so kind to me and it's even been fun being with you all - that's all I really wanted to say. But I do need to get back to Harry and the others soon. That's all."

After breakfast, Grover calls me over, Marina standing beside him. I move away from Layla, who had been checking over how my wounds had been healing (it's much healthier than it had been before I had met her, but they'll never heal completely, and not even the best Healers at St. Mungo's can fix that, let alone Layla with her limited supplies), getting to my feet and walking over to him, saying, "What's up?"

"I know you're used to all the fun, exciting, wild missions," Grover says, grinning, "but I think it's time we reminded you of the more mundane, boring tasks. We're going out to get more food, and we wanted you to come with us."

"Why me?" I ask, surprised. "I mean, besides wanting to remind me of the mundane and the boring things in the world."

"Always nice to have backup," Grover replies, shrugging.

"And more people means more hands to carry food," Marina adds matter-of-factly.

"That always helps," Grover agrees.

"Alright," I say with a shrug. "Count me in. Give me a moment to disguise myself, though."

Once I've changed from Hazel Knight to Gabriella McCoy, I follow Grover and Marina out of the tent and through the sparsely wooded area that we've settled in for the time being. Marina, claiming to be familiar with the area and the best place to get food in the Muggle town nearby, leads the way, Grover and I bringing up the rear, our wands in our hands, ready to defend ourselves from attack at any moment.

"So, how do you know the area again?" I ask Marina, as we emerge from the trees and walk along the pavement of the town instead, looking around at the quaint shops and tall apartment buildings.

"My family and I lived here for a while when I was younger," she replies over her shoulder. "I didn't grow up here or anything, but I stayed long enough for the place to stick with me. There's this one huge shop we can stop at. How much Muggle money do we have again?"

"Enough to last us a while without spending all of it," Grover replies. "We just need to be smart about it."

"I have Muggle money, too," I pipe up, swinging my black bag off of my shoulder and opening it, pulling out the sac full of money that Grintlog had given me. "I can pay for all of it if you'd like - "

"No need for that," Marina says, very firmly. "If we do need you help in that department, though, we'll be sure to let you know. Alright, this is it," she adds, slowing to a stop in front of a large shopping centre, people bustling around nearby, moving around us impatiently. "Hoods up, heads down, let's make this quick."

Having exchanged robes for regular jumpers to blend in with the Muggles better, we each put our hoods up, and I stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my wand, following Marina and Grover into the shop. We move quickly and quietly, careful not to make any eye contact with anyone. The odds are the shop only has Muggles inside, but just in case there are any Snatchers and Death Eaters nearby on the lookout, or just to cause trouble, it's best to avoid conflict if possible. We pick up only what is needed and the cheapest version of it there is, and in the end, we find that even with everything we need, we still have an extra ten pounds that we had planned on spending.

"Right," Marina says briskly, "then I'm looking at the crisps that they've got, because I think I've missed those most of all. Go on to get checked out, I'll find you soon."

"Don't get too much!" Grover calls after her as she walks away. "The extra money will be good on rainy days!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know!" she calls back, waving a hand airily, before moving out of sight.

Grover and I exchange looks, but proceed to the cash registers regardless. It's probably best if we move efficiently, anyway.

"She worries me sometimes," Grover mumbles. "Which shouldn't be how this works, since I'm younger than her, but she worries me."

"Seems to me like you always worry about everyone," I reply quietly.

"That's a fair assessment," Grover admits. "I care about people, Ha - Gabriella, what can I tell you? It's easy to get worried."

"I'm not saying it as a bad thing," I tell him reassuringly, as we reach the cash registers and join one of the shorter queues. "The one thing we need in times like this is people who still care."

Grover gives me an appreciative look and says, "You sound like Layla - and trust me, that's definitely not a bad thing. She used to tell me that all the time. When I first met her, she was in a bad sort of way, but she still managed to be so positive. If nothing else kept me going, it was always her."

I nod slowly as I listen to him, the both of us stepping forward as one of the customers in front of us finishes getting checked out and moves away. I think about the looks Layla always gives him, long and admiring, the way she never has anything but praise to give him when he is brought up, her eyes lit up and her face glowing with admiration.

"She loves you, I think," I say, looking up at him. "Layla, I mean."

Grover smiles at me, but shakes his head. "No, I don't think she does. Not in the way you think, at least. She definitely respects me, which means a lot since it's hard to ever get her to really, truly respect you. And she might love me in a way, because I love her in the same way, but not in the way you've got in mind."

"What was is that?" I ask, curious.

"A friend," he says simply, shrugging. "A protector, maybe, since we always have each other's backs, no matter what. That's all there is. I think why you're thinking the way you are is because she's told me that I remind her of this boy she left behind before she went on the run. They weren't together or anything, but they were as close to it as you could get to it without being there. And she loved him a lot, and he loved her, in the way that you're thinking. But she had to run away before she could tell him. I remind her of him sometimes, supposedly, but she knows I'm not him, and she doesn't want me to be. We're friends - best friends - we protect each other, that's all."

Taking this in, in spite of everything, I can't help but think about Fred. Fred who told me he loved me before I ran away. Fred who thinks I'm dead.

"Well," I finally say, trying unsuccessfully to force him from my mind, "thanks for clearing things up."

"Always a pleasure," Grover says, just as we finally reach the front of the queue and begin putting our items on the conveyor belt to be scanned, and as Marina jogs up to us, placing three bags of crisps on the belt.

"That's the money we'll need to pay for those," Marina says, handing Grover the correct amount of notes. "And this is the money that we have left over," she adds, holding up what's left of the ten pounds. "See? I can shop smart."

"Never doubted you for a moment," Grover says with a grin, as the cashier finishes ringing them up and he hands her the money.

We each take bags to carry, walking out of the store together. This time Grover leads the way, and I hang behind with Marina. We're mostly silent as we walk (she trusts me well enough, I think, but she's still not quite willing to open up to me), but once we reach the shelter of the trees again, she finally speaks.

"So, you have a boy back home, then? Fred Weasley, his name was?"

For a moment, I'm a little too stunned to speak. It's not that we haven't had our fair share of conversations before, but never on a topic like  _this_. Marina isn't really the type to sit around and talk about love and romance with people, and frankly, neither am I if I can help it.

"Er - yeah," I reply, glancing at her sideways. "I suppose."

"You  _suppose?_ " Marina repeats disbelievingly, raising her eyebrows.

"Well," I say slowly, "I don't really know if I still  _have_ him. I mean, he thinks I'm dead and all, and I - er - I sort of broke up with him before I left."

"You did?" she raises her eyebrows. "Funny. You sounded really happy to hear his voice when we were listening to  _Potterwatch_. That's not the way  _I've_ acted with any of my ex-partners."

"I didn't break up with him because I didn't still fancy him," I reply. "I sort of did it for... his own good. You know, I was going on the run and doing all sorts of dangerous stuff, and I'm not sure how long it'll go on for, and I didn't want him just... hanging around waiting for me or anything. I didn't want to hold him back, I mean. And I knew there was a chance of me not coming back, and I figured if I broke up with him and he moved on, it wouldn't quite hurt as much than it would if he kept waiting around hoping for me to come back."

"You broke up with him for his own good?" she repeats. "Look, that's very noble of you and all, but the only person who can say what's for their own good or not is themselves. What did he say about it?"

"He didn't... quite agree with me," I reply slowly. "But I ended up having to leave before things could be sorted out. But I had already broken up with him."

"Jesus," Marina says, shaking her head. "You've been through so much, I forget you're only seventeen."

"Wait a moment," I say, immediately angered by the comment. "Don't you  _dare_ pull that 'you're just a stupid kid' thing on me, because I'll - "

"I wasn't doing that," she assures me. "But I remember being this clueless about this stuff at seventeen. Look, you say you did it so that it would hurt him less if you ended up dead, but he thinks you're dead now, and he sounded like he was going to cry just saying your name on  _Potterwatch_ \- "

"Yeah," I mumble, looking down at the slowly defrosting forest ground, "trust me, that one hadn't slipped my notice."

"So what was even the point of doing it, then?" she asks.

"Well, I didn't think he was going to blatantly ignore my advice!" I say defensively, then pause, remembering everything that I know about Fred. "Okay, maybe I didn't expect him to just  _go_ with it, but I was hoping that he'd move on at least a little from me!"

"Well, let's say that he did, and then you come home safe and sound, with the war won and all," Marina says. "And you're all ready to go back to him, but he's moved on to someone else. Then what do you do? Be miserable because you've told the person you love to be with someone else?"

"I'd learn to deal with it," I mumble, "if it makes him happy, I would. Besides, I don't even really know if I'm in love with him! I don't know anything about any of this!"

Marina raises her eyebrows. "Look, you might be confused, and I know I don't know you all that well, but I do know that a person can't look the way you did when you heard his voice and not be in love. What's holding you back?" she asks, when I just shake my head and say nothing.

"I don't know," I say, a little helplessly. "I don't know how any of this works! My aunt and my uncle, they - they sort of made it seem like nobody would ever love me at all, but then I had Harry, and he showed me someone could love me like a friend should love you, even the way  _family_ should love you. But until I found out Fred fancied me, I didn't think anyone could love me like  _that_. Even then, I didn't realise it was actually love until he told me before I left. And all these people around me as a kid were telling me no boy or anything would love me if I acted the way I did, which is just... how I am. So I just figured no one would ever love me like that and sort of... didn't bother with any of that stuff, because I figured there was no point. And now I'm still trying to figure out how to wrap my head around the idea that he actually loves me and how to be able to say it back and wrap my head around actually loving him like that back, and Merlin, I can't believe I'm telling you all of this, I probably sound mad."

"You don't sound mad," she says, her expression and voice surprisingly gentle. "Just confused and scared and more in love than I thought you were. I do think you love him, that's not changing. Maybe you haven't quite figured out how yet, but it's becoming more and more clear that you  _do_ in some way or other. And you haven't been given a whole lot of time to figure out, with the war and everything, but you will. And you need to tell him once you do, not just go on and keep it to yourself for  _his own good._ "

I just shake my head, feeling more lost about all of this than ever, especially on how I managed to end up so deep in this conversation. "But if I really am that much in love with him, isn't that just more reason to let him go? I should want his happiness more than anything, shouldn't I?"

Marina is silent for so long at that that I'm tempted to ask her if she had just suddenly decided that were no longer having a conversation. Before I can, though, she speaks.

"Before I met this lot," she gestures at Grover's back, still walking ahead of us, "I was on the run with all the other Muggle-borns I had managed to avoid going to Azkaban with. A lot of them died, or we got split up for one reason or another. In the end, it was just me and this other woman, Rae. She was about Felix' age, but she looked nothing like him. Her family was from Delhi, in India, so her skin was darker, and she had this gorgeous, wavy hair and the prettiest eyes I'd ever seen in my life. And she might have been the kindest person I'd ever met, and one of the funniest and the smartest and the sweetest and the most genuine, the only person who'd ever had everything I really needed. As you might be able to imagine, I was in love with her. More than I've ever been in love with another person in my life, more than I'd ever thought I could love someone. She drove me half-mad sometimes, in spite of everything."

I listen, stunned. Stunned at this whole other part of Marina that I had never known about, and stunned that she's trusting me enough to tell me any of this.

"The reason I'm telling you this is because we're more similar than I thought at first - and I always figured we were a lot alike," she says, and I can't help but run through a list of my and Marina's different qualities, slightly surprised that we did have a lot in common. I suppose I had been too caught up in everything and she had been too closed off at first for me to really realise it. I even remember her mentioning once that she had played Chaser on her Quidditch team at school. "And I was the way you were. I pushed how I felt to the side, I thought it was for her own good, that it was just better in general if I didn't complicate any of it. And then one day we ran into some Death Eaters. We managed to get away, but Raw still ended up dying in my arms. She died not knowing how I felt."

"Marina," I say, shocked, but there's not much to say to something like that that doesn't sound fake and wrong and pitying.

"Look, Hazel," Marina says, looking me in the eyes, not allowing me to think of anything to say to comfort her, "I know being the martyr is kind of your thing and all, but you can't just put every little thing a person might need before yourself and think that counts as love. Raw and I should've had years together, but we didn't even get weeks, because I put off saying anything because I thought it was the best choice. It's not. You need to go after the things you want, the things you love, even if there is a risk. Nothing really worth having doesn't have a little risk to it."

Before I can say anything to that, we re-enter our camp's boundaries. Layla, who had been taking watch outside, leaps to her feet when she sees us, rushing over. Grover gives us one last glance before handing some of his bags into Layla's outstretched hands and ducking into the tent with her. Marina and I walk side by side to the mouth of the tent.

"Look, I'm not saying you have to run away tonight to find him and marry him in secret," she says. "Just don't let the way you feel about each other go to waste. That's all."

With that, she ducks into the tent. I stare after her for a moment, before letting out a sigh and following her inside.

 

***

 

A few hours after dinner, I take watch, sitting cross-legged outside of the tent, looking around at the seemingly empty forest and thinking of all that Grover and Marina had told me. Grover's story about Layla and that boy she had to leave behind, Marina's story about Raw and all the lost days they should have had, that they could have had. It all reminds me so much of Fred that it feels like all of my permanent scars are reopening just by thinking about it; usually I have some way of keeping busy so that I don't have to torture myself by thinking about it (one of the many reasons to avoid sleep), but while on watch with very little to do, it's nearly impossible.

I'm brought out of my thoughts at the sound of someone stepping out of the tent and sitting next to me. I look over to find Felix, leaning back against the palms of his hands and looking out at me with a friendly smile.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Well, you already have," I reply.

"It really doesn't take that much to get up and leave," he replies easily. "That is, if you want me to."

"I don't mind," I tell him. "Just not sure I'll be very entertaining to be around."

"On the contrary," he says matter-of-factly, "we all find you well and proper interesting to talk to. From what I've heard, you had quite the conversation with both Grover and Marina. Grover doesn't surprise me, he's an open book, for the most part, but Marina is a shock. It took me weeks to have anything remotely close to meaningful with her, and you waltz in and you manage to have that bond in a matter of two weeks? What spell have you got her under?"

"No spell," I answer. "She think's we're alike, though. I'm inclined to agree."

"As am I, now that I think about it," he says with a nod. "Still, I'm a little jealous."

"Surprising to know that I have something that merits jealousy."

"Really? You don't think your flying abilities, your power over the natural elements, your natural talent as a wizard, your good looks, or your cheeky portrait that gives you advice merits jealousy?"

"All of those things except my power over the natural elements is up for debate," I reply. "Especially the cheeky portrait. That is not even close to the blessing you think it is."

He lets out a laugh. "Maybe I'll take your word for it. Still, you're a little too modest, I think."

"That's also up for debate," I shrug. "I've been called arrogant a fair few times in my life - I mean, always by the same people who have some sort of vendetta against me, but still."

"I'm going to go ahead and make the assumption that they don't know what the hell they're talking about," Felix raises his eyebrows. "Look, I grew up not having a lot of... well, anything. Growing up like that makes you notice how much more everyone else has, how great they all are. I'm not so insecure or anything now, but I still pick up on the good parts of people really easily. You've got a lot of good parts."

I smile at that, breathing out a laugh. "Thanks. You've got a fair few good parts yourself... and let's ignore how weird this all sounds out of context."

Felix lets out a laugh at that. "Good idea. Very good idea." Once we stop laughing, he looks over at me and nudges me, saying, "Go in. I'll take over watch, don't worry."

"You sure?" I say, glancing over at him uncertainly. "I've got no problem with staying for longer."

"Yeah, don't worry about it," he insists. "Go in and get some rest."

I smile and thank him gratefully, deciding not to mention how unlikely it was for me to get much rest at all. I get to my feet, walking back into the tent and flopping onto the sofa, stretching out my legs and crossing my arms, staring up at the ceiling blankly. I look over when a shadow blocks my view, seeing Layla standing over me.

"I wanted to check over the rest of your wounds," she explains. "Since I got interrupted before and all."

"Yeah," I say, immediately swinging my feet off the sofa and shifting over to give Layla room to sit. "Go right ahead."

Layla sits down beside me and sets to work, checking over the wounds she's been healing over the course of my time here. I watch her expression, her movements very carefully, and she doesn't appear very worried, which is a relief.

"So, Grover told you about my... person," she says, as she moves to check over the scars on my back. "I use 'person' for lack of a better term."

"He did," I say. "Is that a problem?"

"No," she replies. "I trust you. Besides, even if I didn't, Grover does, and that's always been enough for me."

"That's nice to know," I say. "Especially considering the control you have over my health right now, knowing we've got a trusting relationship going on is a little comforting."

Layla lets out a laugh at that. "It's flattering for me, considering your trouble with trusting people. You remind me of Marina sometimes."

"Join the club," I say, raising my eyebrows and turning to look at her. "Out of curiosity, do you wait until people off-guard before saying things like that that they didn't realise you knew?"

"Kind of," she shrugs, checking on the scar on my arm now. "Makes it more fun. One of the benefits of growing up with an Auror."

The playful look in her eyes goes away a little as she mentions her uncle, sobering up slightly.

"D'you miss him?"

She doesn't have to ask me who I mean. "Yeah, of course I do. I miss him everyday. He raised me. I miss my dad, too, but I don't always think of him as my  _dad_ , because it wasn't him that was always there, it was my uncle. The worst part is that I don't even know if he's dead or not. All I know is that the Death Eaters took him. He could still be alive for all I know. I don't know whether I should be grieving him or looking for him or anything else."

"I know how that feels," I say sympathetically. "I know you all think I'm desperate to go out there looking for my friends again, but truth is, I'm a little scared. Anything could have happened to them without me knowing, and all I can think is that I should  _be_ there."

"People like us do not belong in wars like this, Hazel," she says matter-of-factly. "Helplessness doesn't suit us."

That sums it up so well that there's nothing left to say. We fall silent as she finishes checking over my injuries.

"Yeah, it's healing as best as it can with what we have," Layla says, breaking the silence as she finishes up. "It might be better if we had better supplies, but it's hard to find, and even then, I don't think it'd really do that much."

"Don't worry about it," I assure her. "I'm in a much better place than I'd be if I hadn't met you."

She smiles, and opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, there's a loud crashing noise from outside. We exchange looks, immediately tensing up. Grover and Marina, who had been about to doze off in their bunks, are immediately wide awake and on their feet. Devon, who had been scribbling away in his notebook, tosses it to the side and jumps off his bunk, replacing the quill with his wand. We all rush out of the tent to join Felix, who is also on his feet, the rest of us drawing our wands.

"What was that?" Devon asks Felix sharply.

"No clue," Felix says distractedly, shaking his head. "Nowhere I can see. Came from somewhere over there," he says, pointing to his left. "I'll go check it out."

"I'll go with you," Devon says immediately, stepping forward.

"So will I," Layla says. "Marina, Grover, Hazel, you three stay behind as back-up. It might be nothing, but let's not risk it."

They leave, moving quickly and quietly, leaving Marina, Grover and I to wait around nervously. We're silent, unable to speak, hardly daring to breathe lest we miss any other noises. Suddenly, there's another crash and a voice that sounds horribly like Devon crying out in pain. Marina, Grover, and I exchange looks, before breaking into a run towards the source of the noise. When we reach the others, the sight makes my heart stop.

Devon is lying face down on the ground by a tree, blood sticking to his hair and spilling down his head. He's stirring, indicating that he's still alive, but only just. Felix and Layla stand a few feet in front of them, their wands drawn, glancing back repeatedly, as though all they want is to go back to him. The reason why they can't is very evident; two masked Death Eaters stand in front of them, their wands drawn as well. Whatever had happened to Devon, it's clear the Death Eaters did it to him. Layla, Felix, and the two Death Eaters tear their eyes away from each other to look at us.

"It's her! That's her!" one of the Death Eaters cries, pointing at me, and it's then that I realise two things; one, in the heat of the moment, I'd forgotten to change my appearance; and two, the Death Eaters are here for me. Somehow, the Death Eaters had gotten word of where I would be and found me. It's my fault that they're here. My fault that Devon is hurt.

Before either of the two Death Eaters can do anything, I summon a blast of wind to force Felix, Layla, Marina, Grover, and Devon away from the fight. Devon is already hurt because of me, I don't need anything worse happening to them. Both Death Eaters fire Killing Curses at me, and I dodge them, sending a Stunning Spell towards the Death Eater who had spoken before. The spell hits the Death Eater right in the chest, and they crumple to the floor. Dodging another curse sent by the other Death Eater, I cause the earth beneath the Death Eaters to tremble and shake so hard that the other Death Eater loses their balance and collapses onto the floor. I stop the earth's shaking and hurry closer to the Death Eaters, summoning a ring of fire around us so they can't escape.

"Did he send you? Did your  _master_ send you?" I hiss, pointing my wand at the Death Eater, struggling to get to their feet.

The Death Eater nods and says roughly, "He did. Know what that means? You'll be dead soon, Knight."

"Probably," I snarl. "But not today."

With that, I wave my wand at him again and in a flash of red light, he crumples to the floor again, unconscious. With another wave of my wand, I bind the two Death Eaters tightly together with rope. I walk over to them, taking their wands from them and tossing them aside. With the Death Eaters taken care of, I wave my hands idly, and the fire disappears, scorch marks on the ground where it had once been. Immediately, I turn around and rush over to where the others have crowded around Devon, who is now sitting up, leaning against the tree.

"What happened?" I say immediately. "Are you okay?"

"Been better, but I'm fine," Devon mumbles, touching the back of his head gingerly before looking at his now blood-soaked fingers. "Except for the whole blood thing, I suppose. One of the Death Eaters sent me flying backwards faster than I thought possible. I banged my head against a tree, passed out for a few seconds there, and that's about all that happened until you showed up and took care of things."

"How the hell did they find out where we were?" Marina demands. "We were being more careful than usual, and we've never had a problem before!"

Grover shakes his head, looking lost. "I don't know. And I don't know what we're going to do with them, either."

"I do," I snarl, the blood rushing in my head. "Leave it to me, I'll take care of it."

"I'll go with you," Felix says immediately, getting up from where he was kneeling beside Devon. "You'll need back-up."

"I'll go, too," Marina says, moving by my side. "Layla, Grover, you take Devon back to the tent. Layla, I suspect Devon'll need you to look after him."

Grover and Layla both nod wordlessly, each of them taking one of Devon's arms and wrapping it around him, helping him to his feet. Marina, Felix, and I wait until they're out of sight, before we walk towards the Death Eaters, still unconscious and bound tightly together. I transform myself so that I look like Gabriella McCoy again, then hold out my arm, which Marina grabs onto, grabbing onto Felix with her free hand. Felix clutches onto one of the Death Eaters by the scruff of their robes. I twist on the spot, and the darkness and tightness of Apparition engulfs us.

When we land on solid ground, we're in the same bathroom in London that acts as an entrance to the Ministry of Magic. As expected, nobody is here, too late at night for people to be coming to work. However, the place will be packed come morning, so loads of Ministry workers will see anything or anyone we leave here. Meaning other Death Eaters and Voldemort will see, too.

"Er - not that I don't trust you, but why are we in a public bathroom that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in about a decade?" Felix says, looking to me.

"Make that two decades," Marina says, looking around in disgust. "Maybe three."

"It's not just some dirty public bathroom," I reply. "This is the new way to enter the Ministry of Magic. They flush themselves in. Yeah, I know," I say at the disgusted looks on their faces, "I felt the same way. Anyway, I'm here to send a message."

I make sure to wipe their memories of what had just happened from both of the Death Eaters' minds, before opening one of the cubicles and, with help from Felix and Marina, drag them onto one of the toilets. I check one last time that they're still unconscious and that the ropes are tight enough to keep them stuck together for some time. We back out of the stall, closing the door. I raise my wand, and carve a message into the door in big, bold letters that reads,

_NICE TRY_

_-H.J.K_

"You-Know-Who won't like that," Felix says lightly.

"I hope it gives him hell," I say flatly, backing up until I'm standing between Marina and Felix, holding out both of my arms.

They grip onto each of my forearms tightly, and I twist on the spot, taking us back to the campsite. We walk back to the tent in silence, finding that Grover, Felix, and Devon are just outside of the tent, Grover standing and keeping watch, Layla and Devon on the floor, Layla tending to Grover carefully.

"What did you guys do?" Grover asks, the moment we're in sight and within the tent's protective enchantments.

"What Hazel did was brilliant!" Felix says enthusiastically. "Tell them, Hazel."

I want to tell them. I try to, but when I open my mouth, it comes out as, "I'm leaving."

Everyone turns to look at me, even Devon, who still looks slightly disoriented, and Layla, who is rarely ever fully distracted from her work. I don't regret saying it, though. Devon had gotten hurt because of me. Things could have turned out much worse, and it would have been my fault. Somehow, Voldemort and his followers had learned I was travelling with this group, and they won't rest until they have me. I'm not stupid enough to think they'd ever spare the others, especially considering the actions they've taken to resist Voldemort. I can't let them talk me out of leaving. I have to put distance between myself and them, if only for their own protection.

"I don't know how they found out where we were, or that I was travelling with you all, but they did," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "That means the longer I stay here, the more danger you're all in. The more they'll want you dead. Devon got hurt, and things could've turned out even worse, and it would've been my fault. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to any of you, especially if it was because of me. Besides," I continue pointedly, when they all open their mouths to argue, "I've loved spending time with you all so much that I've been neglecting and avoiding the thing I need to do, which is find Harry and Hermione. I made a promise to them, and I haven't been keeping it. If all of this - " I gesture around vaguely - "is a sign of anything, it's not just that it's dangerous for me to be around you, but that I need to leave and find them again."

Nobody says anything. It seems that no matter how much they want to, none of them can deny the fact that it was me and me alone that brought those Death Eaters to them.

"I'll leave in the morning," I say heavily, and enter the tent.

I walk over to my bunk, opening my black bag and making sure I have everything I need in there so that I can leave as soon as possible tomorrow - the less time I spend here tomorrow, the easier it will be to leave. I can hear the others talking in hushed whispers outside, but I can't quite make out anything that they're saying. Sometimes it sounds like they're saying something that sounds a lot like my name, though.

A few minutes later, Devon enters the tent, his head wrapped in bandages, and sits down on my bunk, looking up at me silently.

"Are you going to say something, or are you going to keep staring and freaking me out?" I finally say, after a few moments of this.

"If I told you that I was fine, would you be more inclined to stay?" he asks.

"Would you be telling the truth?" I say, avoiding the actual question.

"For the most part, yes," Devon shrugs. "I mean, I'm stuck wearing these stupid bandages for a few days, but I'm not going to die or anything. Layla says I don't even have a concussion. So, does that change anything?"

"No," I finally say, closing my bag and tossing it on the floor by the bunk, sitting down beside him. "Because what if you weren't fine? That would be on me. The fact that you're wearing those bandages at all is on me. And if they come back and I'm still here and any of you get hurt even worse, that's on me. The more distance I put between me and you, the safer you all are."

"And the fact that we're already all in danger doesn't change anything with you, does it?"

"You'd be in less danger if I wasn't here," is all I say.

"Right," he says, nodding slowly and letting out a sigh. "God, Hazel, doesn't your whole selfless hero thing ever get tiring?"

"Don't know if I'm much of a selfless hero," I reply, shrugging. "This is just the right thing to do. But I'm pretty much exhausted all the time, so maybe."

"Well," he says slowly, "if it counts for anything, I'll miss you. And so will the rest of us."

"It counts for more than you think," I say. "I'll miss you all, too." We're silent for a time, until I nudge him gently and say, "Go. You should get some rest."

He gets to his feet, walking over to his bunk, but says, "I will if you do."

I laugh a little, but say nothing, kicking off my shoes and lying down on the bunk, staring up at the bottom of the top bunk where Layla sleeps blankly, listening carefully, not relaxing until I hear the sound of Devon's deep, even breathing.

 

***

 

The next morning, I alter my appearance to look like Gabriella McCoy again, and eat one last breakfast with them at their insistence, the mood rather subdued. I feel a little guilty knowing I'm the reason for the gloomy feeling in the air, but I simply remind myself that I'm only doing what has to be done. After breakfast, the other all follow me out of the tent, clearly wanting to say goodbye. Grover is the first to pull me aside.

"Is there really nothing that would convince you to stay?" he asks quietly.

I smile sadly at him, shaking my head. "Just remember it's not because I  _want_ to leave."

He nods, looking disappointed, but says, taking my arms in his hands, "Well, be careful. I hope we meet again one day soon."

"Same to you," I say, nodding and smiling wider.

I move away and walk over to Felix, who pulls me into a short, but tight hug, saying, "I wish you didn't have to go, mate."

"Not as much as I do, I bet," I reply, pulling away and smiling at him. "Take care of yourself, and keep up with the music, alright? When we win the war, I want to hear about you going on tour and selling out shows - and I want V.I.P. passes," I add sternly.

"I'll make sure I've always got a spot saved for you," he says, grinning.

"That's what I like to hear," I say, nodding.

Felix nods at me once, then moves away. No sooner has he left does Marina take his place.

"Forever a goddamn martyr, I see," Marina says, raising her eyebrows.

"I suppose nothing's going to stop you from calling me that?" I say, crossing my arms.

"Nothing except staying," she says bluntly.

"I guess I'll stay a martyr in your mind for a little longer, then," I say, smiling apologetically.

"Figured as much," Marina shrugs. "Just promise me one thing, alright? Promise me you won't be afraid to chase after what you want."

"I will if you do," I reply.

"Then we have a deal," she says.

"Brilliant," I say cheerfully, holding out a hand for her to shake.

Marina looks down at the hand; then, to my complete and utter surprise, pulls me in for a tight hug. I stand there in shock for a moment, before wrapping my arms around her and hugging her back. When we pull away, she smiles and nods at me, squeezing my shoulders, before moving away. I stand there, still slightly surprised at how that conversation ended, when Layla walks in front of me.

"Don't think I've seen you so shocked in all the time I've known you," she says, grinning.

"That was a shocking thing that just happened!" I protest.

"Nah, Marina's always been a softie, you just have to get under all of the other parts of her," Layla shakes her head. "It looks like you just did."

"Right when I'm leaving," I say with a long-suffering sigh, and Layla grins.

She pulls out a small jar filled with some sort of white cream, handing it to me and saying, "I just wanted to give you this. I think your scars are as healed as they can get, but still put this on at least once a day, and use as much of it as you need if there's any pain. It should help a lot."

"But won't you need it?" I say, my brow furrowed.

"You need it more than any of us will, I suspect," she replies. When I still don't take it, she shakes it a little, saying insistently, "Take it! None of us have any use for it except for you."

Finally, I take it from her and place it carefully in my bag, smiling gratefully. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she says. "Take care, okay?"

With that, she wraps me in a quick hug, before moving away. I make eye contact with Devon, whose bandages had been replaced by Layla, and we walk towards each other, meeting in the middle.

"Well," he says, once we're in front of each other, "it was nice causing mischief with you, even if it wasn't quite the same kind as we used to do in Hogwarts."

"It's not the last time we'll cause mischief together," I say, as reassuringly as I can manage. "It can't be, we put it in your notebook that we'd cause more trouble after the war, remember?"

He smiles faintly at that. "And the notebook never lies."

"Never," I repeat, very seriously, then crack a smile, reaching forward and gripping his arms tightly. "Be careful, yeah?"

"You too," he says, nodding and smiling.

I move away, turning to face all of them. For a moment, I struggle to find the words to say, before finally saying, "I... I just want to thank you again for how kind you've all been to me. You didn't have to take me in, didn't have to do everything you did for me, but you did, anyway, and there are really no words for how grateful I am. After my time being tortured, even though I didn't realise it as the time, I really needed people who... who'd have my back, and be kind, and help me, and be... well, be a friend to me. Physically, I mean, and not just through a portrait - not that I don't appreciate him, either, but... it's different. Anyway, I just mean that you've been all of that and more, and I just want you all to know how grateful I am, and how much I appreciate you all for that. And I really do hope that we meet again one day, because I won't ever forget you or any of the memories - be it the good or the bad."

"It was our pleasure, Hazel," Grover insists.

"Yeah, mate, it wasn't any trouble at all," Felix adds, and Devon and Layla nod.

"We haven't really had enough time to miss you yet," Marina adds in, "but we already hope we see you again, too."

I smile faintly and nod, before walking away until I'm outside of the tent's protective enchantments. I turn back to face them again and raise my hand in farewell, a gesture they return. Then, I turn on the spot and am engulfed by darkness once more.


	33. The Woodside Inn

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Woodside Inn**

 

I land at the edge of a wood near a relatively small town full of wizards and witches that I remember Felix mentioning once in passing. Pulling my hood up, I walk out of the woods into the town, looking for the inn that he had mentioned staying at for a while, the Woodside Inn. I avoid eye contact, glancing around at the buildings, until I finally find a tall building, standing between a restaurant and a book shop, with a sign above the door reading:  _THE WOODSIDE INN_.

I open the door and walk in, the bell jingling overhead, standing still just in front of the door, my eyes sweeping around the room. The pub resembles the Leaky Cauldron quite a bit; it's dark and shabby, with a bar and a number of tables in the shadows of the corners. And, just like how the Leaky Cauldron is lately, the pub is almost empty; there's a group of people with their hoods pulled low so that I can't see their faces, talking in whispers; two witches sitting in the corner, one of them smoking a long pipe, looking at me as though examining me, also whispering to each other; and a pallid-looking boy and girl who seem to be around my age, looking as though they could be twins, their eyes repeatedly darting around the pub, sitting at the corner opposite the two witches, looking as though they wish they could sink into the wall and be invisible. On the other side of the bar stands the barmaid, a pretty, curvy woman with skin like copper and long, dark hair that she has pulled into a ponytail.

I lower my hood and walk over to the bar, taking a seat in one of the high chairs.

"What can I get for you?" the barmaid asks, giving me a polite smile.

"Erm - I'll have a Butterbeer, please," I reply, putting on my Yorkshire accent again. "And I'll rent a room after that."

"You're really going to rent a room?" the barmaid says, raising her eyebrows and looking incredulous as she fills up a bottle with Butterbeer to me and slides it over the table. I pay her quickly. When I nod, wrenching open the cap and taking a sip, she comments, "You're mighty brace, then, girl. Nobody's rented a room here in ages, you can't imagine how bad it's been for business. Then again, I can't pretend I don't understand," the barmaid continues, looking thoughtful, "with everything that's been going on, the way right over our shoulders, I don't reckon anyone wants to stay anywhere too public, too out in the open. They want to be nice and hidden, they do."

"Well, me, I'm not really one to stay at one place for a long time, I like to keep on moving," I explain, which isn't  _necessarily_ a lie. Maybe I don't  _like_ it, but I keep doing it, anyway. "So inns like this are my best friend."

"I'm glad to hear it," the barmaid states. "You've got to be the first one to rent a room in a long while. It's mostly been me and those witches over there lately," she gestures at the two witches in the corner, and when I turn around, they give me smiles that are more menacing than friendly, "and between you and me," she says, and she lowers her voice, leaning over the counter so that only I can hear, "they don't make for very good company, them."

"They don't look it, either," I admit, giving her a small smile, and she lets out a laugh.

"Well, I'm holding out on the hope that you're a bit better than them," she states. "I'm going to need a laugh, even if it's only until you leave."

"Ah, don't put too much pressure on me," I say, smiling slightly before taking another sip of Butterbeer. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"It can't be that hard," she shrugs. "Just don't be dull."

"Easier said than done," I point out, before taking a longer swig of Butterbeer.

"Don't I know it, having to deal with this lot all the time," the barmaid says, gesturing airily around the room, and I let out a laugh, just as the sound of the bell jingling sounds again, and we both look around to see a large group of people entering the pub, laughing, wearing dark, slightly-shabby clothing and looking around the pub menacingly. Definitely Snatchers. Not wanting to cause any trouble, I look away, down at the wood of the bar.

"Oh, not this lot again," the barmaid mutters, looking as though she wishes to be anywhere but here.

"You know them?" I ask her quietly.

"Do I?" she says, scoffing. "Come in here every damn day, don't they? Always harassing everyone here, trying to scare them, make themselves seem more intimidating."

"Raya," the person who seems to be the leader of the group, who I've heard is called Scabior, drawls, strolling towards the bar. "Good to see you again."

"Wish I could say the same," Raya mutters, but looks up at Scabior, smiles pleasantly, though I can tell it's forced, and says, "Good to see you, too, Scabior. What can I get for you all? The usual?"

"Aye, we'd appreciate it," he replies, leaning against the bar. "We've had a long day, you see."

 _Hunting Muggle-borns and so-called Blood Traitors must really get tiring_ , I think, but don't say anything.

As Raya hastens to get the usual for the group of Snatchers, whatever the usual is, a few of them walk over to the pallid-looking siblings and start harassing them.

"What are you lookin' at us funny for, boy?" one of them demands of the boy. "Got something you want to say to us?"

"N-n-no, sir, I wasn't looking at you funny," the boy stutters, shaking his head frantically. "I was just - "

"What's your name, both of you?" the Snatcher says, cutting him off. "Blood status?"

For a moment, the siblings look terrified; but before they can give a reply, Raya, who has finished getting drinks and is putting bottles on the bar, sharply says, "I'll appreciate it if you don't bother my customers, by the way." When the Snatchers look at her menacingly, she adds, "It's bad for business, you see, if all my customers get scared off, and I know you all like coming here so much, wouldn't you be a little disappointed if I had to close down because I went bankrupt?"

"Well, you heard her," Scabior says, when the Snatchers don't move away from the siblings, wrenching open his bottle and taking a long swig. "Get away from them now! That means you, too, Aguilar!" he adds, pointing at the one who was interrogating the siblings. "If they're Mudbloods we can deal with them later."

Looking extremely reluctant, the Snatchers move away from the siblings, who let out a sigh of relief, and sit down at the bar, each of them taking a bottle and drinking deeply.

"And what are you lookin' at?" Scabior demands, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

I curse internally; the last thing I need is a group of Snatchers with their attention on me, and now that's what I'm getting.

"Nothing," I reply, shrugging and looking away, taking a sip of my Butterbeer, hoping I look relaxed and casual. "Just a couple of you harassing two teenagers for  _looking_ at you."

"Could've been Mudbloods," Aguilar snarls.

"And you can tell from just looking at them, can you?" I reply, raising my eyebrows.

I know the last thing I should be doing is getting them angry, but I'm already this far, anyway.

"It's none of your business," another one snaps, getting to his feet and striding over to me.

"Sit down, Byrd, I don't want any trouble in my inn!" Raya hisses, but Byrd ignores her, standing right behind my chair. I turn around to face him, hoping I don't look as nervous as I am.

"What d'you - " I begin, but he interrupts me.

"Get up!" he hisses.

"I actually think we can have this conversation sitting, thank you," I say, raising my eyebrows.

"Get up now!" he demands, pulling out his wand and pointing it at me.

"No wands! I told you, I don't want trouble!" Raya says, but Byrd ignores her again.

I see the rest of the Snatchers stand up and stand behind him. Recognising that I'm vastly outnumbers, even if Raya decided to help me, which, by the looks of it, she probably would, and that causing any more of a scene is the last thing I need to do right now, I stand up. One of the Snatchers, who had been hesitant in getting to their feet, shorter than the rest of them and wide, blue eyes, is staring at me with more intensity than anyone else. I don't much enjoy it; he looks as though he knows something about me, and the last thing I need is a Snatcher knowing about me. I may be an Undesirable as Gabriella as well as Hazel, but Gabriella isn't very high on the list at all - they haven't even got a name or a solid physical description. Chances are they won't recognise me, but if this one does...

"Happy now?" I say slightly impatiently, and it's not that I notice the rest of the pub is silent, watching us with rapt attention.

 _I really am terrible at this whole 'causing no trouble' thing_ , I think.

"What's your name?" Byrd demands. "Your name and blood-status."

"Do you really need to - " I begin, but Byrd presses his wand against my throat, so letting out an impatient sigh, I say, "Gabriella McCoy. Pure-blood."

There's a small pause, in which one of them shuffles a few pieces of parchment, before saying, "There's no Gabriella McCoy on here, Byrd."

Byrd down not seem to care whether I'm on the list or not, determined to find some reason to harass me.

"Who were your parents?" he asks. "Where did they work?"

"Dylan and Chloe McCoy," I reply immediately. "They worked in Diagon Alley. Dead, both of them. A couple of Death Eaters went on a bit of a killing spree one day while they were at work last year."

"They can't have been on our side, if they were killed by Death Eaters," Byrd states.

"They weren't on any side, and neither am I, since I'm sure you're dying to know," I say. "I'm not Muggle-born, You-Know-Who's got nothing to do with me - none of this has got anything to do with me."

"Who are you living with now?"

"No one," I say. "I was seventeen when they were killed, so when I graduated from Hogwarts I started travelling around the country, going from place to place."

"Why are you moving from place to place? Not hiding from anything, are you?" Byrd asks.

"Why would I be hiding? I already told you, I'm not on any side," I say. "I haven't crossed You-Know-Who, otherwise I'm sure I'd be dead by now. I just don't like staying in one place for too long, I've always been like that."

"What house were you in at Hogwarts, then?"

"Slytherin," I reply.

"Funny," Scabior suddenly says, at Byrd's left side, "how they all think that's what we want to hear, but none of 'em can even tell us where the common room is."

"The Slytherin Common Room," I begin impatiently, "is in the dungeons. The entrance is just this blank wall, and you've got to say the password to make the door appear and open for you. The common room has got all these green lamps and chairs, and it's sort of under the Black Lake, so it's got this greenish glow to it. There are a bunch of skulls and leather sofas and dark wooden cupboards. D'you need me to go on and describe the dormitory, or are you satisfied now?"

The Snatchers exchange looks.

"Okay, so you really are Slytherin," Byrd mutters.

"And now that that's established," I say, "are you done interrogating me so I can sit down and finish my drink, because - "

"Willis, why d'you keep starin' at her?" Scabior suddenly bursts out, looking at the Snatcher who keeps staring at me with an amused smile. "Don't fancy this one, too, do you? At least she's Pure-blood. Remember that Mudblood you fancied?"

All the Snatchers look around at Willis, Byrd's wand still pointed at me. Willis has torn his eyes away from me, but nobody can mistake the fact that he definitely was staring at me. The Snatchers all start laughing loudly.

"D'you want her, Willis? You can have her, if you like," Byrd says, grinning. "Do whatever you want with her, whenever you want. This one is awfully pretty..."

I tense slightly, but then force myself to relax, though one thing has solidified in my mind: fuck not causing a scene and fuck not getting myself into a bigger mess than I'm in already. If I have to fight numbers twice as large than the amount of Snatchers present right now, I'll do it. I refuse to be a prisoner again.

"Don't want to do anything with her," Willis grumbles. "Don't want her at all."

"Well, that's settled, then, so is this done?" I say.

"Fine," Byrd says, lowering his wand and moving away from me. "You're good - for now. But don't cross us again, girl."

They all move back to their seats, and I watch them carefully, making sure they're all seated and drinking again, before finally sitting down, letting out a small relieved breath.

"I've changed my mind about you," Raya mutters to me, as I take a particularly long swig of my Butterbeer.

"Have you?" I say distractedly.

"Yeah," she confirms. "You're not just brave; you're really brave. Really brave and really stupid."

"I've gotten that once or twice," I say indifferently, shrugging, taking another sip of my Butterbeer.

"Yeah, well, how about I show you your room now?" Raya says quietly. "Get you out of here and fast."

"Sounds good to me," I say, down the rest of the bottle, and follow Raya out of the pub, the Snatchers catcalling and jeering as we leave.

"So," Raya says conversationally, as she leads me down the hall and up stairs, "I'm going to take a wild guess and say that most of the things you told them aren't true?"

"I might've bent the truth once or twice," I reply vaguely, and she laughs, shaking her head.

"Right," she says. "Well, I imagine you'd prefer it if people didn't know much about you, so I won't ask you anymore questions."

"Less questions is a bit more convenient for me," is all I say, and she grins.

"Well, I'm sure I've had shadier people drop by," she shrugs, and I privately think that it's unlikely that she's had someone who is Undesirable and wanted by the Ministry under two different identities. "Just keep your head down for the rest of the time you're here, because you might be Pure-blood - unless you were lying about that one, too - in Slytherin, and seemingly unlikely to be a rebel against You-Know-Who's regime, but that doesn't mean they can't do awful things to you, anyway."

"Don't worry, I know the Snatchers well," I reply. "Besides, even if I didn't, we all heard them; they were willing to take me and - and  _give_ me to that one Snatcher, Willis, and let him do whatever he liked to me, just because they thought he  _wanted_ me," I finish in disgust.

"It's disgusting," Raya shakes her head. "They're disgusting. One of these days, I'm going to take them all out, and I'll be damned if how many of them there are will stop me."

"Yeah, well, before you do, find me first," I say. "I want to help."

"Deal," Raya says, grinning at me. "But until then, just be careful, yeah? I'm finding you a room that's a bit farther away from everything, some people don't even know it's there, just in case they change their minds and want to come after you."

"That's really nice of you, but you don't need to worry," I state. "I can take care of myself just fine if it comes to it."

"I'm glad to hear it," Raya says. "You're the most interesting person who's come here in ages, it'd be a real shame if you died before I had a chance to enjoy your company."

"Well, for your sake, I'll live just long enough to provide you with a bit of entertainment," I laugh.

"Good," Raya says briskly, finally stopping at a door at the end of one of the halls. "Here's your room. How long are you staying?"

"Erm - a week," I say.

"That'll be seven Galleons," she says, and I pull out my sac of money from my bag and hand her the gold. She gives me a key and says, "Now, wish me good luck with dealing with those idiots again."

"Good luck," I say, smiling grimly, and she returns the gesture, before waving and walking back up the hall.

I watch her as she goes for a while, before turning to the door, unlocking the room, and stepping inside, closing the door behind me. I throw my bad across the room and flop onto the bed, though I'm not remotely tired, deciding to wait for a while, before going out and exploring the town and finding out whatever news I can and figure out what I'm going to do about finding Harry and Hermione from here on.

 

***

 

The next two days are rather uneventful. I manage to learn more about what's been happening in the wizarding world lately, but I haven't got any word about Harry and Hermione - not that I'm surprised. It's odd; whenever I try and find any sign of Harry and Hermione and fail, I'm never sure if I'm disappointed or relieved. Of course, I'm disappointed, because I'm starting to think that I'm never going to find them again, but I'm also relieved, because if I can't find any sign of them, when I know more than most about what's going on with them, then neither should Voldemort or any sort of enemy. Regardless, the feeling of hopelessness that has started to settle inside me makes me decide that the disappointment overwhelms the relief.

Deciding to follow Raya's advice and my own common sense, I keep my head down whenever I see the Snatchers from now on (which is only when I'm entering or exiting the inn and they're doing the opposite), and also putting my hood up for good measure, hoping they won't notice me at all. The first day they don't, but the second day they do, all of them catcalling and jeering at me - all of them except for Willis, who just stares and stares at me, making me extremely uneasy, so that I hurry inside the inn before his stare can burn holes in my head.

On the third day, I don't encounter any of the Snatchers at all. As the sun is setting and dusk is starting to fall, I'm just starting to think that I've gotten lucky and that today will be a completely Snatcher-free one, when I enter the inn and find Willis sitting in one of the high chairs at the bar, drumming his finger on the tables with almost haunted-looking eyes. Standing near him is Raya, her eyes darting towards him repeatedly, her facial expression an odd combination of disdainful and nervous.

I frown at the scene, feeling several emotions; relieved, because at least there's only one of them, and to be frank, Willis seems like he would be the easiest to beat in a duel, if I end up having to fight him; disappointment, because it seems as thought they really are impossible to avoid if I want to stay around here; and nervousness, because I have no idea what he's doing here, and judging by the look on Raya's face, it can't be anything good.

Regardless, since I need to keep going with this resolve to not get into any trouble with the Snatchers, that I have enough on my plate already, I put my hood up again, shove my hands into my pockets and start walking away to my room, hoping that he won't notice me.

I'm dead wrong.

I've only just passed him when I heard the sound of him leaping to his feet, and he calls, "Gab - McCoy!"

I freeze for a split second, decide that it's impossible to act as though I haven't heard, and turn around very slowly.

"Look, I haven't done anything," I say immediately. "I already told you lot, I'm not against you, I don't want anything to do with this war, so I'm no threat. But I don't fancy being kidnapped by you so you can - you can do what you like with me, so if I have to - "

"Listen, I know," Willis says, moving closer to me and lowering his voice. I withhold from flinching and taking a few steps back, knowing that I need to hold my ground and I need to do it firmly. "I need to talk to you in private. Now. It's important."

"Oh, please," I scoff. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, and that's why I'm talking to you," he replies quietly.

I look at him in slight confusion for a moment, before making my face impassive and saying, "I'm not going anywhere with you. That's final."

"Willis, I've told you lot before, I won't have you bothering my customers," Raya says sharply, wiping one of the plates with a dishcloth.

Willis looks at her apprehensively, but doesn't say anything to her, turning back to me. Again, he takes a step towards me, moving his face so that it's right by my ear, and now it's taking all of my willpower not to take a step back.

"I know who you really are," he whispers in my ear, hesitates for a moment, then adds, in an impossibly lower voice, "Hazel Knight."

I freeze, my entire body rigid. Then I take a deep breath, and say in a voice of extremely forced calm, "Come with me. In front of me."

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"I'm not doing anything for you," I snap. "Now let's go. We're going to my room."

"Gabrielle, do you really think this is a good idea?" Raya says, glancing over at Willis.

"Trust me, Raya, it's safer for me to talk to him than to let him go," I say firmly, then turn back to Willis, draw my wand and point at him, and say, "Walk."

He obeys, his hands out on either side of him, and begins walking in front of me. Under my command, I lead him to my room. Once we reach the door, I unlock the door with one hand, the other hand still holding my wand, pointed at him. I kick the door open and gesture for him to enter. He walks in, and I follow closely behind him, closing the door, before turning to face him again.

"What makes you think I'm Hazel Knight?" I demand.

"You mean how do I know?" Willis corrects. "I don't - "

"No, I mean what makes you think, because I'm not," I interrupt, feeling rather nervous now.

"Look, Hazel, as much as it truly pains me to say it, we haven't got time to play pretend," Willis says impatiently. "I know for a fact that you're Hazel Knight, and I know that you know for a fact that there's no way you're going to convince me of otherwise."

I look at him in silence for a long time, then I say, very slowly and in my regular voice, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, fear coursing through me. "How did you know? What gave me away?"

"I don't know. Nothing really gave you away, per se, I just knew the moment I saw you. I've only ever seen you in pictures in the  _Prophet_ , but... something about you made me know. Maybe it's that in you have the same sort of air about you as you do in your pictures, especially in the most recent one, I don't know. Either way, it doesn't mater. What matters is that I know what you want, and indirectly, it's what I want, too."

"Wha - wait, you're not turning me in?" I say, confused.

"Of course I'm not turning you in," Willis says impatiently. "If I wanted to turn you in, I would've done it the moment I saw you, because I figured it out right away, didn't I? No, I wanted to talk to you about those friends of yours... Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and that Weasley bloke - Ron, I believe his name was?"

Again, I freeze for a split second, before quickly saying, "What is it? What do you know about them?"

"They're in trouble," he says urgently. "We - me and the group of Snatchers, and Fenrir Greyback, I'm sure you know him, he was with us - we caught them today."

For a moment, I swear my heart stops. Somewhere in the very, very back of my mind, slight shock registers that Ron is with me. Fear turns into utter terror, and it's with extreme difficulty that I say, my mouth dry, "What do you - they're - you captured them?"

"Yes," he says, nodding.

"How are they? Are they okay?" I ask desperately.

"When I left they were fine," he replies. "Harry's face was badly stung, but either Hermione or Ron did it so that we wouldn't be able to recognise him, I reckon. Either way, we managed to, and they're at the Malfoys' now, which is why I came to you. When they all Apparated there, I Apparated over here, hoping you were still staying here."

My heart drops. A heavy silent falls upon the room, in which I try to regain my ability to speak.

"The Malfoys?" I finally manage to choke out. "As in... as in Malfoy Manor?"

"That's right," he confirms, nodding. "I know you can save them - in fact, I'd say you're one of the only ones who can. You got out of it once - "

"You're lying," I burst out harshly. "How am I supposed to believe you? You're one of them. This is probably a trap, isn't it? I bet you all knew all along, and this has been your plan - "

"No it's not," he interrupts calmly. "I may be one of them, but it's not because I want to be."

"What d'you mean?"

"My dad was on the other side - our side, I suppose," Willis explains. "Blood-traitor, you see. He was always against it, but when they - when they killed my mum for being Muggle-born... that solidified his position, I suppose. Anyway, they killed him last year. I think - I think he knew they were after him, because while we were visiting for Christmas, he told me and my brother and sister just before we left to go back to our own placed again to lie low, do whatever it took to make sure we're safe until this war ends. He was always convinced that we'd win the war, no matter what. Anyway, they killed him afterwards, and I understood that he was afraid they'd go after us for being his kids. A while ago a couple of Snatchers found me, and they started asking questions, and... well, let's just say I'm not as good as you when it comes to being under pressure. If I didn't join, they would've killed me, and the one thing my dad wanted most was for us to all live through this war... so - "

"So you joined to protect yourself," I say quietly.

"It's not the bravest thing, and it's not the most honourable thing, I know," he says bluntly. "Most days I'm so ashamed of myself I can't even sleep, but it's keeping me alive. Point is, I really want - no, I really  _need_ for this way to end and I want You-Know-Who to be defeated. And I know Harry Potter is the only one who can defeat him. I need - the wizard world needs Harry Potter, and Harry Potter needs you, now more than ever. Besides, I know you want to find them again, I know you must've been looking for ages, and this might be your only chance."

"What - what makes you think that I can even do it?" I ask.

"You? The Girl of Smoke? Who else?" Willis says, almost laughing, while it registers vaguely that the Snatchers have given me a nickname. "You did it once, taking a goblin along with you, I hear, I know you can do it again."

"It'll be difficult," I say, stating the obvious.

"You say it as though it was easy the last time," Willis says raising his eyebrows.

"Well, not, but - but more difficult," I insist, wanting to see if he really is genuine in his answers, because I don't want to walk into a trap. "Taking along three people is something entirely different from taking along a goblin, and they'll have upped the security by about a billion - "

"And with a wand and a few weeks to heal since you were there last, I know you'll be able to handle it," he says firmly. "Hazel, I wouldn't have come to you if I wasn't absolutely certain you could do it, and that you weren't one of the only ones who could. As much as I'd life for you to be reunited with your friends and all, I'm only interested in finding someone who could get them out, and if I thought you were going to fail, I wouldn't have bothered finding you." When I don't say anything, just staring at him, my heart still pounding in my chest, he says, "Come on, they're running out of time. They'll want to make absolute sure it's Harry before getting You-Know-Who, but it can't take that long, and you know exactly what'll happen when they contact him. Are you going or not?"

"Oh, I'm going. Of course I'm going," I say, then step closer to him, lowering my voice threateningly. "But let's get something clear: if I go to Malfoy Manor to find that I've walked into a trap, before they kill me - because I don't doubt they'll manage it this time - I will find a way to get to you and kill you."

"And I won't even try to fight you off," Willis says firmly. "I swear it."

I look at him for a moment, then say, "Go. Leave, now. You betrayed them, they'll be looking for you. Go into hiding now." He hesitates, nods, then walks away. Before he's at the door, I call, my back to him, "What's your first name?"

He turns around, and I feel his gaze on me, but I don't turn around.

"Samuel."

Finally, I turn to face him, then say, "Well, if it turns out that you're  _not_ lying and leading me into a trap, then I'd like to say thank you, Samuel. I reckon your dad would be proud of you."

"I hope so," he says, sighing, then giving me a small, fleeting smile. "Goodbye, Hazel Knight."

"Goodbye," I say, nodding once at him.

He walks the rest of the way out of the room, opening the door, stepping outside, and closing it behind him. A few minutes after he's gone, I walk across the room, to the dresser with a mirror, and stare at my reflection for a while, not really seeing it. I'm going back to Malfoy Manor. The place where I was tortured for three months. The place I had almost died. The place I had received scars, physical and mental, a lot of which I'm sure will never heal. The place I never, ever wanted to see again. My friends are there. They need my help. I am going back to Malfoy Manor.

Suddenly, I grab the thing nearest me - a hairbrush - and throw it at the mirror with all my strength. The mirror shatters, the shards falling down onto the dresser, and something about the sound of the shattering, the pieces falling onto the dresser satisfies me, relaxes me. I stare at them for a while, then pull at my wand, point it at the shards, and calmly say, " _Reparo!_ "

Then I walk across the room, open my bag, pull out the portrait of Sir Phineas. It's blank.

"Sir Phineas," I call calmly. "Sir Phineas."

I repeat his name for several moments, until he finally comes walking into the frame, his eyebrows raised at me.

"I was wondering where you'd gone off to," he comments. "I was starting to think you'd gotten bored of me."

"I'm going to Malfoy Manor."

His eyes widen.

"You're what?" he demands. "Have you lost your mind, girl?"

"I think so," I say, "but my mind doesn't matter right now. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are there. They need my help, and even if they didn't, this might be my only chance to find them again. I have to go."

"If your mind is made, why tell me about this?" he asks.

"I - I don't know" I reply honestly. "I suppose after all we've been through together over there, I feel almost obligated to tell you. Then again, it might be because I might die and I want to say goodbye."

"I'm going to focus on the first one," Sir Phineas states. "But for now, goodbye, Hazel Knight, and best of luck to you. Please do return safely, because I'd hate for the one person who made me start to believe in the youth again to die before they get the opportunity to grow as old and bitter as me."

I smile weakly.

"Thank you, Sir Phineas. Oddly enough, it's been a pleasure."

He gives me a wry smile and nods once at me, and I return the gesture, before putting him back inside my bag, swinging it on my back, and walking out of the room, my heart racing, my palms sweating.

I return to the pub, where a relieved expression crosses Raya's face.

"Gabriella! What a relief, I was getting worried! I was just about to come upstairs to check on you."

"I appreciate the concern, but it wasn't necessary," I say, forcing a smile, speaking in my Yorkshire accent again.

"What of Willis? When he left he looked kind of - odd," she says.

"Yes, I'd imagine so," I say, nodding. "Don't worry, he didn't hurt me. He just wanted to talk to me about - things."

"What sort of things - ?" she begins, but then says, "You know what, never mind. I'll honour the whole no questions thing."

"Thank you," I say gratefully. "In any case, I'm leaving now. It's got nothing to do with my conversation with Willis," I add quickly, when Raya frowns and opens her mouth to speak. "I've changed my mind, you know, the whole Can't-Stay-In-One-Place thing acting up again."

"Ah, that's a shame," Raya says, looking disappointed and not entirely convinced. "I'll give you your money back, you didn't stay the full week."

"Don't worry about it," I say, holding up a hand and smiling, but getting impatient. "Whatever helps with business, yeah?" I add with a wry smile.

"Right," she says, smiling. "It's been good knowing you, Gabriella. I hope to see you again, and maybe actually know you then."

"I hope so, too," I say, raise a hand in farewell, and hurry out of the inn.

I walk through the town until I reach the edge of the wood, my breathing uneven, my heart in my rather dry mouth. When I reach the edge of the wood, I pause for a moment, breathing hard. Then, I undo the spells that I've put on myself to change my appearance and pull my hood up over my head again, whispering, "This is fucking mental."

With that, I turn on the spot, and Disapparate, heading for the place I swore I'd never return.


	34. Skirmish at Malfoy Manor

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Skirmish at Malfoy Manor**

 

I land in the bushes near the wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor. For what could be seconds or minutes or hours, I don't move, staring up at the big, back foreboding mansion in front of me. Inside those four walls are the Malfoys and Bellatrix and other Death Eaters, other Snatchers, perhaps even Voldemort himself. It suddenly becomes overwhelmingly clear to me that I'm not ready to go back in there. I'm not ready to face any of them again. The very thought of it makes my hands shake and my stomach turn unpleasantly.

There's a loud  _crack_ , indicating Apparition, and I duck a little lower into the bushes, my wand at the ready, prepared to strike at any moment. I expect a Death Eater or a Snatcher, some sort of enemy, an obstacle I'll have to overcome just to get inside the house, let alone get to Harry, Ron, and Hermione and save them. For once, I'm pleasantly surprised. I stand up, making my presence known, and say the name of the last person I'd been expecting to see.

" _Dobby?_ "

Dobby the house-elf looks round at me, startled, then relaxes at the sight of me, rushing over towards me. "Mistress Hazel! This is being a surprise. Dobby was not expecting to see you here!"

"Believe me, Hazel wasn't expecting to see you here, either," I inform him, raising my eyebrows. "Are you here because you heard Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in trouble? How did you know about that?" I ask, when he nods once, his ears flapping about. I realise that cancels out the possibility of all of this being a trap, otherwise Dobby wouldn't know about it.

"A long story, ma'am," he replies. "Takes time Dobby doesn't think we have. How is Mistress Hazel knowing about the danger Harry Potter and his friends are in?"

"Another long story," I reply. "I guess we'll have time to catch each other up when we're all safe. Wait a moment," I say, looking from the house to Dobby, who is staring up at me with his big, green eyes, "I might not be able to Apparate in there, but you can, can't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dobby nods. "I'm an elf."

"Brilliant," I say, and hold out my hand for him to take. "Let's do this, then. You and me, yeah?"

Dobby takes my hand, but before he does anything else, glances up at me again. "Er - Mistress Hazel - can Dobby ask you another question?"

"If it's quick," I reply, shrugging.

"Isn't Mistress Hazel supposed to be dead, ma'am?"

"Supposed to be, yeah," I say, almost smiling. "Another long story."

Dobby nods once in understanding, before twisting on the spot. With another loud crack that sounds like a gunshot in the silence, we land inside the manor. From the view from the window across from us, we're on the third floor, meaning I have one floor to go. If the Snatchers really had taken Harry, Ron, and Hermione here, they must be in the drawing room. That's where they'd taken me every time, during every interrogation, all the torture they had put me through... I realise with a shiver that Harry, Ron, and Hermione might be going through that exact torture right now.

Right as the thought crosses my mind, a loud scream sounds from upstairs that chills my heart to the very core. Even though I've never heard that voice with such pain in it, I recognise it right away, I could recognise it even if I had gone three years without hearing it instead of three months.

"But - but isn't that - ?" Dobby begins, his voice trembling slightly.

"Hermione," I whimper. My resolve hardens, and I turn to Dobby determinedly, doing all that I can to keep my fear at bay, to keep from losing my head completely at the sound of her screaming. "Dobby, I need you to go downstairs into the cellar."

"Why? Do you think Harry Potter and his Wheezy is being kept there?" Dobby asks, tilting his head.

"I don't know," I admit, "but from what Grintlog - this goblin I met who was trapped here too - part of the long story - told me, they keep prisoners down in the cellar. I was in too much of a rush before, but now I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't do everything I could to save them. Please, just go down there and see who's there and get them out if you can, whether Harry and Ron are there or not. I think you know better than anyone that nobody deserves to be subjected to the torture here. Then you can Apparate back and help me get the others upstairs out, if you want. It's your choice."

"I'm going ask you again - where did you get this sword? Where?" Bellatrix Lestrange's voice sounds from upstairs, and fear pierces my heart in spite of myself.

"We found it - we found it - PLEASE!" comes Hermione's voice, and she screams again. I flinch, closing my eyes and willing myself to keep calm.

Dobby finally nods and says, "I will, Mistress Hazel. I will help the prisoners in the cellar, and then I will return to help you, too."

"Thank you, Dobby," I say gratefully, and he turns on the spot and Disapparates.

I stand still for a moment, listening, ensuring that nobody is coming near me, before moving as quickly as I can without making too much noise towards the drawing room. It's difficult without Sir Phineas to guide me again, but soon as I reach the staircase to the fourth floor, the sound of Bellatrix's voice and Hermione's screams guiding me, forcing me to quicken my pace.

"You're lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You've been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!"

Another terrible scream.

No longer caring about being quiet, I break into a run, sprinting up the stairs and down the corridors until I see the open doorway to the drawing room, ducking away and pressing myself against the wall by the door so they can't see me, peering as best as I can to see the scene going on inside. Hermione lies sprawled on the floor, limp and shivering, while Bellatrix lies on top of her, a dagger in one hand and her wand in the other. Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy all stand together to the side, watching but saying nothing. The Snatchers who had been at the Woodside Inn are standing there, Fenrir Greyback watching Hermione hungrily. It reminds me so much of the times they had tortured me that bile rushes up my throat, and I nearly throw up then and there.

"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth, or I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

_Like hell you will._

My wand drawn, feeling for the Cross of Elements on my finger, I turn the corner and stride into the room, my hood still up. My arrival makes them all freeze, stunned.

"Who are you?" Bellatrix demands, her voice low. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'll give you one guess," I say as I lower my hood, feigning confidence, before raising my wand and sending the Snatchers flying backwards, slamming against the wall.

The Malfoys all raise their wands to attack, but I move too quickly. I drench Lucius Malfoy in water, and by clenching my fist, freeze the water up to his shoulders, rooting him in his place. I surround Narcissa in a ring of fire taller than her, blocking me from her view and preventing her from moving towards me. Draco, who had leapt out of the way of the fire I'd conjured, is easy to take care of; I send a blast of wind to kick him off balance, then wave my wand, thinking  _Flipendo!_ He goes flying across the room and slams into the wall. Scabior beginning to recover, staggers to his feet, raising his wand at me, but with a wave of my wand, rope wounds itself tightly around him, sending him falling to the floor again. Bellatrix leaps to her feet, moving away from Hermione, rage etched on every part of her face.

"You," she hisses, walking towards me slowly, wand raised. "You! Back again, I see? I didn't think you wanted to die that badly."

"Who said anything about death?" I reply easily. "Nobody needs to die at all. I've only come for my friends. This can all be quite simple, actually, if you let it be."

Bellatrix laughs as though what I've said was completely mad - which it kind of is. I know there's no way for this to be simple at all, but my only intention is to get Bellatrix's attention off of Hermione, and I've succeeded. Hermione is still lying on the floor, tears leaking out of her eyes, dazed, but staring at me in complete and utter shock. I had been hoping that Hermione would be strong enough to slip out of the room undetected while everyone's attention is on me, but now I doubt it. I'll need to find some sort of way to carry her out of the room. I wonder where Harry and Ron are. If they were simply in the cellar downstairs, or if they were already dead. I brush that idea as soon as I think it, though. I couldn't bear the idea of them being dead. It doesn't even make sense for them to be dead, anyway. Why would Hermione be alive if they weren't?

"You're even more foolish than I remember!" Bellatrix says. "I'll take joy in killing you at least. The Dark Lord shall be greeted with another present soon!"

With that, she waves her wand and sends a jet of green light towards me. I duck out of the way, sending a blast of wind towards her, knocking her off balance. I fire a Stunning Spell at her, but she manages to block it. A jet of flames shoot from her wand directly towards me, but with a flick of my fingers, the flames turn into water. I redirect the water and aim it to her, turning the water to a sharp icicle halfway. With a sharp jab of her wand, the ice shatters into nothingness. She aims the Cruciatus Curse at me, and I leap out of the way to avoid it. I raise my wand to fight back, but someone grabs me from behind and yanks me back. I struggle against the grip, but they hold me down firmly, digging sharp nails into my arms, drawing blood. Finally, I go limp against them, hissing in pain.

"I've waited far too long for this," they say lowly behind me, breath hot on my neck, and my blood runs cold. Fenrir Greyback.

Bellatrix walks towards me slowly, mad triumph lighting her eyes. I struggle against Greyback once more, slightly halfheartedly, but it's useless, him holding me fast. All my false courage has disappeared like smoke. Suddenly, I don't feel so strong; all I am is a kid who rushed into something she couldn't handle. Once right in front of me, Bellatrix smiles.

"You'll be dead at last soon," she says loftily, looking down at me, her chin raised. "But not right now. You were our prisoner in the first place because you wanted to protect your little Mudblood friend. Before I kill you, you'll watch me kill her."

Unable to help it, I look away from Bellatrix, down at Hermione, still sprawled on the floor, shaking. I can see the inside of her left arm; cut into it in careful, precise lettering, blood still pouring from the cuts is the word 'Mudblood.' Her eyes are bright with tears, but still she stares at me with wide eyes.

 _Oh, I'm sorry,_ I think desperately.  _I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm sorry._

Bellatrix looks from Hermione to me. She shakes her head, scoffing and stepping away from me.

"The Dark Lord was right," she whispers. "Your love has failed you, Hazel Knight."

Bellatrix turns her back to me, making purposeful strides towards Hermione. Greyback holds me tighter against him, and I suck in a breath. I will myself to stay calm, trying to find a way to get both myself and Hermione out of this mess. I can only hope that Dobby found Harry and Ron and got them out somehow.

"Now," Bellatrix breathes, addressing Hermione, "after that little interlude, do you think you're ready to talk? Are you ready to tell me where you found the sword?"

Fresh tears are springing in Hermione's eyes, but she simply shakes her head fervently, pressing her lips tightly together as though to make sure she doesn't say a word. In spite of the near paralysing fear creeping up rapidly inside me, I feel confusion bubbling up. A sword? I follow Lucius Malfoy's gaze, and my heart leaps when I see at what he is looking. The sword of Gryffindor, with its silver blade and ruby-encrusted hilt, lay glittering a few feet away. They found the sword of Gryffindor. Questions race through my mind, how they found out, how long ago, if they've destroyed the locket, if they've found and destroyed any other Horcruxes with it. It's then that it truly hits me how much I must have missed while I was away; that Harry, Ron, and Hermione all kept right on living while I was prisoner, that there must be a world of events that I've missed. Bellatrix's lips curl into a deep scowl.

With a flick of her wand, the sword flies into her hands. In a whirlwind of movement, she brings the sword and stabs Hermione in her right arm. Hermione shrieks in pain, clutching onto her right arm with her left hand.

"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix demands, yelling over the sound of Hermione's screams. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

I freeze slightly at that, my mind racing. One, because this confirms that there are prisoners being kept in the cellar, that there's a large chance that that's where Harry and Ron are right now - surely Dobby has reached them by now. Two, the fact that there's a goblin in the cellar. She can't mean Grintlog, can she? He is an enemy to the Death Eaters, and it's not exactly like Grintlog's been in hiding, having requested to go back to Gringotts. Still, something about the conviction in his tone when he told me he didn't intend to be taken alive in then was difficult to not believe and take seriously. Three, because it occurs to me that the sword of Gryffindor, the fake one, the one everyone believes to be the real one, must be stored in Bellatrix' vault. And she thinks that Hermione stole it under her nose, when she must have been given orders by her master to keep it safe.

"We only met him tonight," Hermione sobs, and I struggle against Greyback further, wanting nothing more than to find some way to help Hermione. "We've never been inside your vault... it isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy!" Bellatrix shrieks. "Oh, a likely story!"

She raised the sword to strike again, but then Lucius is saying, "But we can find out easily! Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Draco hangs there for a moment, before crossing the drawing room in a few short, quick strides, slipping through the door. There is silence for a moment, while Bellatrix circles Hermione like a vulture. I watch with bated breath, my entire body tense, trying to find some way to escape Greyback's vice-like grip.

"You best hope the goblin says it's a copy, too," Bellatrix tells Hermione softly, pressing down on the skin beside Hermione's wounds with her heeled boots to make them bleed more. "Or you won't like what happens to you."

"He will," Hermione groans weakly, whimpering slightly. "He will, it's not real, it's a copy, a copy - "

Bellatrix doesn't let Hermione finish; she slashes her wand violently. Hermione lets out another terrible, terrible scream. She writhes and twitches in pain, and I can't watch in silence anymore.

"STOP! STOP IT, PLEASE!" I scream desperately. "PLEASE! TAKE ME INSTEAD! TORTURE ME INSTEAD, BUT LEAVE HER ALONE, PLEASE, PLEASE!"

Bellatrix lifts her curse from Hermione. Hermione gives one, great shuddering gasp, then goes still. Bellatrix raises an eyebrow, striding towards me slowly. I have no idea how I'll defend it myself, if I'll defend myself at all, but at least Bellatrix' attention is off Hermione, if only for a moment. When Bellatrix is right in front of me, I force myself to remain calm, staring right up at her.

"Don't worry, girl," Bellatrix says quietly. "You'll get what you deserve soon. But since it hurts you so much for me to torture her, that's what I'll keep doing."

I've forgotten what it feels like to be so afraid - how is this something you ever stop remembering? I doubt I will again. Still, what I know for certain is that I'm already losing Bellatrix's attention, and afterwards she'll refocus it on torturing Hermione, which is the last thing I want. I feel for the Cross of Elements on my finger, willing the ball of obsidian to turn to fire. I take a moment to feel the fire, the magic, the power coursing through me, my eyes fluttering closed. I open my eyes again. As I do, I open my mouth, and a jet of fire bursts from my mouth at Bellatrix's face.

Bellatrix ducks, letting out a strangled yelp. Shocked, Greyback loosens his grip for just a moment, but before I can dart completely out of his reach, he latches onto me and pulls me back roughly, redoubling his grip. Furiously, I fight to free myself from his grip, to no avail. I crane my neck to spit fire at Greyback, but I miss his face completely, so that Narcissa must duck out of the way of the flames. Giving up, I turn back to Bellatrix and spit fire from my mouth at her, but she dodges it more easily now.

Before I can aim any more fire at her, she waves her wand at me, and when the curse hits, I know immediately it's the Cruciatus Curse. It's a pain you can never forget, no matter how long it's been, especially when you've experienced it as much as I have. I scream in pain, my body shaking wildly. I suck in a breath when she lifts the curse, exhaling rapidly. She walks towards me, her breath coming in fast, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"You dare," she whispers in disbelief. "You are _attempt_ \- this will not be as it was before for you, _girl_." She takes the streak in my hair that is wispy, dead-looking, and white in her fingers carefully. "I nearly drove you to madness. I almost caused your death. Now I will not fail in either parts, you can be assured of that."

I don't reply, staring up at her in silence, resentful. Before anybody in the room can say or do anything else, Draco returns to the room. There is a goblin a few steps in front of him, Draco pointing his wand at the back of the goblin's head, but it isn't Grintlog. It is a different goblin who I don't recognise, a cut already on the side of its forehead.

"Good," Bellatrix says briskly, almost forgetting that I'm here. She moves away towards the goblin, holding up a sword. "Goblin, do you see this?"

The goblin was silent for a time, staring at the sword of Gryffindor impassively. Then, he says, "I do." The goblin's slightly high-pitched voice is vaguely familiar, but before I can figure out where I've heard it before, Bellatrix says, "Good. Then you will tell us whether or not this is a copy or the true sword of Gryffindor."

"I will?" the goblin says in interest. "And should happen if I don't?"

"Are you so stupid as to not know we will kill you?" Bellatrix snaps.

"And what will become of me if I do tell you? Will I be released?"

"The Dark Lord shows mercy to all those who follow him," Lucius cuts in smoothly. "There is no reason for you to be an exception."

The goblin looks around at each of the Death Eaters, distrust clear on his face. He seems to realise he has no other option, however, for he extends his hand to take the sword, saying, "I'll need to see it up close."

Bellatrix looks reluctant, but apparently her desperation to ensure that the sword is fake or not wins out. Finally, she hands the sword to him, and the goblin begins turning the sword over in his long-fingered hands. The goblin must know, better than anyone, that the sword is real. There is no way Hermione's lie will hold up unless somehow, by some near impossible chance, the goblin decides to lie about it, too.

"Well?" Bellatrix says to the goblin after a tense, silent time. "Is it the true sword?"

I wait, holding my breath. And then, finally -

"No. It is a fake."

"Are you sure?" pants Bellatrix. "Quite sure?"

"Yes," says the goblin.

Relief breaks across her face, all tension draining from it.

"Good," Bellatrix says, and with a casual flick of her wand, she slashes another deep cut into the side of the goblin's face, and he crumples to the floor at her feet. I feel a stab of disgust and anger at her at the sight, but there is nothing I can do yet. "And now," she says in a voice that bursts with triumph, "we call the Dark Lord."

And she pushes back her sleeve and touches her forefinger to the Dark Mark on her arm. Any relief I might have had disappears like smoke.

"And I think," Bellatrix says, "we can dispose of the Mudblood and the blood-traitor once and for all. Greyback, you can have them both, but I'd like to be the one that delivers the final curse to the blood-traitor - "

" _NO!_ " shouts a familiar voice, and then Ron Weasley is running into the drawing room, his hair as vividly red as ever, though matted with blood, tall and freckled and  _real_ , and in spite of everything, my heart leaps a little at the sight of him.

Bellatrix looks around, shocked. She turns to point her wand at Ron instead.

" _EXPELLIARMUS!_ " Ron roars, pointing his wand at Bellatrix, whose wand goes flying out of his hand, caught by Harry Potter, who comes bursting into the drawing room after Ron, messy-haired and green-eyed and  _alive_.

The Malfoys all wheel about. Harry shouts, " _STUPEFY!_ " and Lucius collapses into the hearth. Curses are aimed at Harry, who throws himself on the floor, rolling behind a sofa to protect himself. Ron raises his wand to aim a curse at Greyback, but then stops dead, looking directly at me.

"Hazel?" he says, his eyes wide. "Ha-Hazel? You're alive?"

Harry all but leaps out from behind the sofa, scrambling slightly. His eyes dart around the drawing room desperately until he finds me, and his eyes stay there. It only lasts a moment, them staring at me and me staring back.

It's too long, for it is enough for Bellatrix to grab a seemingly unconscious Hermione, propping her upright and holding her short silver dagger to her throat, saying, "STOP OR SHE DIES!"

Everyone freezes.

"Drop your wands," she whispers, perfectly audible in the quiet of the drawing room. "Drop them or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!"

Ron stands rigid, clutching a wand that I don't think is his. Harry straightens up, still clutching Bellatrix's wand, and it's then that I remember that even if it hadn't been confiscated by the Death Eaters, Harry's own wand is broken.

"I said, drop them!" Bellatrix shrieks, pressing the blade into Hermione's throat. My heart turned unpleasantly at the sight of beads of blood appearing there.

"Alright," Harry yells finally, dropping Bellatrix's wand. Ron does the same with the wand in his hand. They both raise their hands to shoulder height.

"Good!" she leers. "Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches."

I want for it to not be true. But Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are all hurt, all wandless, all defenseless, all clueless, all outnumbered. There is no way out. And all of it makes me feel furious. Two months of torture, of pain, of being held captive to protect my friends, and it ends in all of our deaths, anyway.

My eyes drift upwards, and I see something on the chandelier that makes my heart stop, for just a moment. Dobby is perched on the chandelier, loosening its screws as lowly, as silently as he can. My eyes drift down to Bellatrix, Hermione, and the goblin all directly underneath the chandelier, and I understand immediately what he means to do. My eyes drift back up to Dobby on the chandelier, and he meets my eyes. I want to know why he didn't get Harry and Ron and the goblin the hell out of there, if he at least got any of the prisoners in the cellar out of there - if there were any prisoners - but I can't now. All I can do is feel relieved that he returned to help. So when he looks at me questioningly, as though asking for permission to proceed, I nod as subtly as I can, before looking back down.

"Now," Bellatrix says softly, as Draco hurries back to her with the wands, "Cissy, I think we ought to tie the little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight."

At the last word, there is a peculiar grinding noise from above. Everyone looks up in time for me to see that Dobby has accomplished his task. The crystal chandelier trembles; then, with a creak and an ominous jingling, it begins to fall. Things don't go exactly as planned, however. Bellatrix drops Hermione, moving aside with a scream. The chandelier crashes to the floor in an explosion of crystals and chains, falling on top of Hermione and the goblin, who still has the sword of Gryffindor clutched in his hands. Glittering shards of crystal flies in all directions; Draco doubles over, his hands clutching his bloody face. In a moment of distraction, Greyback releases me, and I take full advantage of the moment this time. I stomp on his foot as hard as I can, causing him to double over. I punch him in the face with all my might, before kneeing him in the crotch. I snatch my wand from his hands, as he had confiscated it from me, and point it at him, yelling, " _STUPEFY!_ "

The force of my spell lifts the werewolf off of his feet, slamming against the wall opposite. I turn to see Harry wrenching the wands out of Draco's grip. Once he succeeds, I run to him, as Ron retrieves Hermione from the wreckage of the chandelier. Harry seems me running towards him and reaches out to me, grabbing my hand tightly in his and pulling me towards him. He pulls me a little behind him, not letting go, as though to ensure I won't disappear this time.

As Narcissa drags Draco out of the way from further harm, Bellatrix springs to her feet, her hair flying as she brandishes the silver dagger, but Narcissa's wand is pointed at the doorway.

"Dobby!" she screams, and even Bellatrix freezes. "You! You dropped the chandelier - ?"

The tiny elf trots into the room, pointing a shaking finger at his former mistress, squeaking, "You must not hurt Harry Potter."

"Kill him, Cissy!" Bellatrix shrieks, but there's another loud crack, and Narcissa's wand flies too high into the air and lands on the other side of the room. Bellatrix bawls, "You dirty little money! How dare you take a witch's wand? How dare you defy your masters?"

"Dobby has no master!" Dobby squeals. "Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

I notice Harry wincing in pain. His scar hurting, probably because Voldemort really is coming. We need to get out of here and quickly. Harry seems to have the same thought.

"Ron, catch - and LET'S GO!" Harry yells, throwing one of the wands to Ron.

He bends down to pull the goblin out from under the chandelier and hoisting him over his shoulder, the goblin still clinging to the sword. I reach out to grab Ron's hand, making sure he's holding onto Hermione tightly enough, redoubling my own grip on Harry's hand. Harry reaches out to seize Dobby, who turns on the spot to Disapparate. As we turn into darkness, I see one last view of a drawing room full of the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, and a blur of flying silver as Bellatrix threw her dagger at the place we are now vanishing...

The darkness of Apparition seems to last longer than usual. I have no idea where Dobby has taken us, and maybe none of the rest of us do, and maybe that's the problem. All I can do is hold onto Harry and Ron's hands as tightly as I can and pray that I do not lose them again.

And then we hit solid earth and smell salty air. I fall to my knees, releasing Harry and Ron's hands, and I let out a breath, relieved.

"Are you alright?" Harry asks the goblin, but the goblin merely whimpers, barely moving.

I look away over at Ron and Hermione. Hermione still isn't awake, slumped in Ron's arms. Still, I can see the rise and fall of Hermione's chest, indicating that she's breathing, and Ron, while battered and bruised, is still conscious, at least. They're both alive. I squint around through the darkness. There seems to be a cottage a short way under the wide starry sky, and I think I can see movement from inside. They must be friends, or allies at least, otherwise Dobby would not have taken us here, but where are we exactly? Who is in that cottage?

"Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?" I can hear Harry whisper. The term is familiar to me, though it takes a moment to remember where; Shell Cottage is the name of Bill and Fleur's home. "Have we come to the right place? Dobby?"

I look around to find Dobby, slightly unnerved when he doesn't respond. I let out a gasp when I see him, standing a few feet in front of Harry and I.

"DOBBY!"

The elf sways slightly, stars reflected in his wide, shining eyes. As one, he, Harry, and I look down at the silver hilt of Bellatrix' knife protruding from the elf's heaving chest.

"Dobby - no - help!" Harry bellows towards the cottage, towards the people moving there. "HELP!"

I'm not sure if we really are in the right place, if it's Bill and Fleur at the window, but I can't bring myself to focus on it. Not when there's a dark stain spreading across Dobby's front as he stretches out his arms with a look of supplication. Harry catches him and lays him down onto the cool grass.

"Dobby, no, don't die, don't die - "

The elf's great green eyes found Harry's, and his lips tremble to form the words, "Harry... Potter..."

And then, with a little shudder, the elf becomes quite still, and his eyes are nothing more than glassy orbs, sprinkled with lights from the stars that he can no longer see.


	35. Here Lies Dobby

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Here Lies Dobby**

 

For a time, neither Harry nor I move, nearly as still as the tiny body curled upon the grass, pierced by Bellatrix's silver dagger. I can't bear to remove the blade from Dobby's chest, to look at all the blood that would spill out from his chest if I do. Harry keeps whispering, "Dobby... Dobby..." even though we both know that the elf has gone to a place he could never respond.

After a minute or two, it becomes clear that we are in the right place, because I notice Bill and Fleur, and to my surprise, Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood, gathering around us as we kneel over Dobby. I don't stop to ask what Dean and Luna are doing there.

"Hermione," I say quietly, looking up at them. "Where is she?"

"Ron's taken her inside," Bill explains. "She'll be alright."

He's looking at me like he's seen a ghost. All of them are, actually. I remember that they all thought I was dead. I'll have to explain what happened to me, but now is not the time. I look back down at Dobby, before reaching forward and wrapping my hand slowly around the hilt of the blade. I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, before pulling out the dagger. The entire blade is soaked through with blood, and I place it beside me on the grass, unable to look at it. Harry removes his jacket and wraps it around the elf like a blanket.

The sea is rushing against the rock nearby. I listen to the waves instead of the sound of the others' voices as they talk of things I can't bring myself to focus on, until I realise they're saying my name. I look up at them.

"We were asking what happened," Bill says. "We're glad to see you, but we all thought you were dead."

"I'm a little surprised about it, too," I reply. "Long story, now isn't the time or place."

Bill nods once. Dean walks forward and carries an injured Griphook into the house, Luna and Fleur hurrying behind.

"I want to do it properly," Harry says suddenly. "Bury him properly. Not by magic. Have you got a spade?"

I want to stay behind and help, but Bill suggests that I go inside and get checked out. I insist that I'm fine physically and there's not much they'll be able to do for me, but he insists, and eventually, I give in. Besides, I realise that Harry wants to be alone, so I turn and follow Bill into the cottage, murmuring to Harry that it'd be back soon.

The living room is light-coloured, pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace. The room is empty save for Fleur, who is digging through supplies in a box at the table. She looks up at our entrance, sitting up straighter. Her eyes linger on me, as though unsure of whether I'm really there or not. When she sees Bill looking quite calm for the situation, however, she seems to decide that I'm not a hallucination.

"Hi," I say lamely. "How have you been?"

"I've been better," Fleur replies tentatively. "And you?"

"So have I," I say.

"Ron and Dean 'ave told me some of what 'appened," Fleur says. "'Ow is 'Arry?"

"He's been better, too, I expect," I say.

"I was getting supplies to tend to ze injured," Fleur explains, holding up the box, then moves towards me, saying, "Are you injured, too? Should I - ?"

I, however, take a step back, saying firmly, "I'm fine. They didn't do anything that bad to me this time. Any injuries I have that could be healed were already healed as best as they could be. Hermione was tortured so bad she passed out, that goblin got hurt pretty bad, Ollivander's been prisoner for over a year, and who knows how long Dean and Luna were prisoners for. I'm not the priority."

Fleur however, insists on at least examining my injuries briefly. I finally allow her to, figuring the sooner she's done with me, the sooner she can get to the people who really need her attention. As she tends to my wounds, I explain quickly and quietly what happened to me, starting from going to Knockturn Alley and ending with my return to Malfoy Manor. I'm careful to mention the mission to find the Horcruxes, dancing around the subject of what Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I were doing while we were away. By the time I'm finished my story, they're wide-eyed with disbelief.

"Hazel, that's - that's - " Bill stutters, something I've never witnessed before, clearly trying to grasp the right word to describe what has happened to me the past few months. Finally, he manages out, "That's mental. That's horrible. I'm sorry you had to - "

"Don't be sorry," I say shortly. "I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me. I got out, didn't I? I'm fine. Fleur, a friend I met on the road gave me this cream that helps with some of my injuries, but it's in my backpack and I left it outside, do you want me to - ?"

"No, no, do not worry yourself," Fleur insisted. "I think I 'ave done all I can for you. Use that cream as often as you need, 'owever."

"Okay," I say, as Fleur gets to her feet again and starts placing the supplies back in the box. "Is there anything I can do to help any of the injured?"

Fleur smiles, but shakes her head. "No. The best you can do ees rest."

"Yeah, Hazel, you look exhausted," Bill says, looking concerned.

I just shake my head, however, getting to my feet. "I'm not tired," I say, though that's a lie. "I want to help."

"There ees not much you can do," Fleur points out.

"Then I at least want to make sure everyone's okay before I sleep," I insist. "I won't get in your way. I... I just need to make sure nobody else dies."

Bill and Fleur exchange uncertain glances, before Fleur finally says, "Okay. If you insist."

I nod, and in spite of the exhaustion seeping into my bones, follow Fleur up the stairs of the cottage. I stand in the corner as she tends to each of the injured. First is Hermione, I want nothing more than to be at her bedside, but I suspect the only reason Fleur allowed me to follow along with her was my promise to stay out of her way, so I hold back with difficulty.

 _It's not like she knows you're there, anyways_ , I think, trying to feel better about the whole situation.  _Those fucking bastards tortured her out of consciousness._

Beside me is Ron. We don't talk much; it's a rather strange circumstance for us. Our last conversation included him confirming my fears of being nothing but a silly little girl who ruins everything good in her life, and then I died - well, to him at least. After that, it's difficult to pick up a friendship again. Still, however, for a moment, w are united by our fear over Hermione's well-being.

When Fleur is finished and announces that Hermione will be just fine with some rest, Ron and I heave sighs of relief in unison. I want nothing more than to wait with Hermione and be there when she wakes up, but there are still more injured I need to see, more people I need to make sure are alive. Besides, Hermione won't be alone. She has Ron. With that, I go to follow Fleur out the door, but to my surprise, Ron grabs my arm to stop me.

I look at his hand on my arm, then at his face, my eyebrows raised. For a moment, the air is tense, and I think Ron is just as much at a loss of what to say as I am. Finally, he manages out, "I-I'm glad you're okay."

For a moment, I'm tempted to make a smart remark, but then I simply say truthfully, "I'm glad you're okay, too."

He nods once, before moving away to sit at Hermione's bedside. I follow Fleur to see the rest of the injured. The next stop is Ollivander, who looks even worse than I expected him to look after a year of being held captive in the cellar of a Death Eater's home and tortured at least once. He's emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against yellowish skin. His great, silver eyes seem cast in their sunken sockets. The hands laying on the blanket could have been a skeleton's. He flinches feebly at the sound of us entering the room, but relaxes slightly when he realises that it's only us. Again, I stand in the corner as Fleur tends to Mr. Ollivander. He's so weak that he passes out while she's tending to his wounds, and in the end, we have to leave silently so as not to wake him up.

Next is the goblin, named Griphook, still clutching the sword of Gryffindor tightly in his hands. It's difficult to bring myself to look away from the sword, but I manage to do it, as I notice Griphook looking at me suspiciously. Griphook doesn't seem very fond of being looked after, seeming reluctant in letting Fleur tend to his legs and thanking her slightly grumpily.

Dean and Luna are last and the easiest to tend to; they bear obvious signs of exhaustion and torture, but nothing too recent or impossible to heal. I stand closer this time, talking in hushed voices to them to help them relax more. I tell them my story, and they tells theirs. Luna was taken to send a message to her father, Xenophilius Lovegood, who kept publishing articles that condemned the Ministry, Voldemort, and his Death Eaters. Dean was caught while on the run because of his Muggle-born status; he was actually there when Harry, Ron, and Hermione were caught. Once Fleur is finished, she gives them strict orders to get as much rest as they can, and they agree.

Fleur turns to me once we're back in the living room, and I know what she's going to say, that I should rest, but I say, "My work's not finished quite yet. I should check on Harry. Is he still digging?"

Bill nods. "He's ding it without magic, though."

Clearly, he thinks I might be too tired to help. Maybe I am, but that doesn't mean I'm going to listen.

"I know," I say. "I don't suppose you have any extra spades?"

And five minutes later, I've found Harry again, at a spot at the end of the garden, between the bushes, and wordlessly, I help him dig Dobby's grave. Neither of us speak, digging wordlessly. The thought that Dobby's small, lifeless body will rest in that grave and remain there until he's nothing but bones makes me sick, but I channel that, as best as I can, into the digging. Pour out all my grief as I dig deeper, deeper down, Harry by my side, doing the same, in the darkness of the night.

A long time goes by before Harry speaks, saying breathlessly, "How is everyone?"

"Not too great," I say honestly. "They'll live. Fleur's looking after them."

"And how are you?"

"I'll live, too," I say. "You?"

"Same here," he says gruffly, and silence falls again.

I don't know how much time passes, but I do know that the darkness has lightened several degrees by the time we are joined by Ron and Dean.

"Hoe's Hermione?"

"Better," Ron says. "Fleur's looking after her."

I was expecting Ron and Dean to ask why we didn't just save time and use magic to create a perfect grave, but the question doesn't come. Instead, they jump down into the hole with us with spades of their own. Together, the four of us dig in silence until the hole seems deep enough.

Once finished, Harry wraps his jacket more snugly around the elf. Ron and I glance at each other and seem to come to a silent agreement, so easily it's almost as though nothing bad has happened between us. We sit down at the edge of the grave and each strip off our shoes and one sock. I place my sock on Dobby's bare foot, and Ron places his sock on the other foot. Dean produces a woollen hat, which Harry places carefully on Dobby's head, muffling his bat-like ears.

"We should close his eyes."

I jump slightly, spinning around. I hadn't heard the others coming. Bill is in a travelling cloak, Fleur in her white apron, a pocket of Skele-Gro protruding from the pocket. Hermione is wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, pale and unsteady on her feet. Ron wraps an arm around her once she reaches him. Luna, huddled in one of Fleur's coats, crouches down and places her fingers tenderly on the elf's eyelid, sliding them over his glassy stare.

"There," she says gently. "Now he could be sleeping."

Harry places the elf into the grave, arranges his tiny limbs so that he might have been resting, then climbs out. For a moment, all we do is gaze down for the last time at the little body. Suddenly, I remember Dumbledore's funeral; the grandness of it all, the wide variety of people who arrived to honour him once more. Dobby deserves just as much, and yet here he lies between brushes in a roughly dug hole. But at least this was more genuine. Of all the people who showed up to Dumbledore's funeral, how many had truly cared about him? Even genuinely liked him? At least Dobby is surrounded by people who appreciated - still appreciate - him.

"I think we ought to say something," Luna pipes up. "I'll go first, shall I?" And as everybody looks at her, she addresses the dead house-elf at the bottom of the grave. "Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair that you had to die when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us. I hope you're happy now."

She turns and looks expectantly at Ron, who clears his throat and says in a thick voice, "Yeah... thanks Dobby."

"Thanks," Dean mutters.

"You wanted to be free," I say thickly, blinking back tears before they can form. "And you were - you are. Thank - thank you for everything, Dobby."

Harry swallows. "Goodbye, Dobby."

Bill raises his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up into the air and falls neatly upon it, a small, reddish mound.

"D'you mind if I stay here a moment?" Harry asks us.

Everyone murmurs slightly unintelligible words, before traipsing back towards the cottage. I linger for a moment, wanting to stay, but figure Harry needs to be alone with Dobby for a while. I turn to leave.

Harry, however, grabs my wrist. "Hazel?"

"Yeah - ?" I say, turning around to face him again, but he pulls me into a tight hug before I can say anything further. I stand in surprise for a moment, before hugging him back, wrapping my arms around him tightly. We're silent for a time, practically clinging onto each other as it hits me that I'm back, that I've found him and the others again, that my best friend for twelve years doesn't think I'm dead anymore.

"Don't die again," he murmurs. "Please."

I almost laugh at the command, but simply say, "I won't if you don't."

"Sounds like a fair deal," he says as we break apart. "Is it okay if - can you stay here?"

I nod earnestly. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

We look around. There are a number of large white stones, smoothed by the sea, marking the edge of the flower beds. He picks up the largest and lays it, pillow-like, over the place where Dobby's head now rests. He then places his hands in his pocket and pulls out two wands. At the moment, I can't remember whose wands they are. All I can really remember is Harry snatching it from someone's - Draco's? Or was it Lucius'? - hands. Either way, neither of them belong to him, his own wand was nearly snapped in half what felt like years ago, but it was only months, really.

Having an idea of what he wants to do, I pull out my own wand and point it at the rock. Carefully, under my murmured instruction, deep cuts appear upon the rock's surface. Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, and it's definitely nowhere close to what the elf deserves, but it is enough. When I'm finished, the stone reads:  _HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF._

I look over at Harry, who's staring at my handiwork.

"Good?" I ask quietly, carefully. It feels important, almost urgent to have Harry's approval.

He's silent, still for a moment, but then nods. "Good."

We look at the grave for a few more seconds, before turning away. Silently, I lead the way back to the beach to pick up my black backpack again, swinging it over my shoulder. As I feel Sir Phineas' portrait move around in my bag, I make a mental note to contact him as soon as I can and let him know I'm not dead. Together, Harry and I walk to the cottage together.

They're all sitting in the living room when we enter the little hall, their attention focused on Bill, who's speaking. Neither of us want to drop mud upon the carpet, so we simply stand there in the doorway, listening.

"... lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe too," he looks around and sees Harry and I. "I've been getting them all out of the Burrow," he explains. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target family - don't apologise," he adds, at the sight of Harry's expression. "It was only a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood-traitor family there is."

"How are they protected?" Harry asks.

"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret-Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too; I'm Secret-Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend. Fleur's given him Skele-Grow - we could probably move them in an hour or - "

"No," Harry cuts in suddenly, and Bill looks startled. "I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important."

He carries a surprising amount of authority and conviction in his voice, which surprises me even more. Everyone else appears to be as puzzled as I am, too.

"I'm going to wash," Harry tells Bill, and I look down at my own hands and body, which are covered in mud and blood. Not all of the blood is Dobby's, either, I think with a jolt, remembering Greyback clutching onto me so hard that his claws drew blood. "Then I'll need to see them, straight away."

He moves over to the little kitchen, to the basin beneath a window overlooking the sea. A sort of soreness is starting to settle into my muscles, the kind that always came a few hours after being tortured. I look to Bill and Fleur.

"I might need to shower," I say mildly.

Fleur nods, and says, "Follow me." Fleur leads the way to their bathroom, giving me a towel and a change of clothes.

I thank her gratefully, before showering quickly, the feeling of the hot water on my sore body providing some relief. Once finished, I change into the clothes Fleur gave me. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and almost don't recognise myself. Fleur had always been a bit bigger than me, but how can her clothes be hanging on me like this? The wispy, white streak in my hair sticks out more than ever against my black hair and pale face. Shaking my head and snapping out of my thoughts.

I hurry out of the room and down the stairs, finding Harry, Bill, and Fleur at the foot of them.

"No," Fleur's saying. "You will 'ave to wait, 'Arry. Zey are both too tired."

"I'm sorry," Harry says without heat, as I move to stand beside Harry, "but it can't wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately - and separately. It's urgent."

"Harry, Hazel, what the hell is going on?" Bill asks. "You turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione been tortured, and Ron - and you, Hazel, really - won't tell us much - "

"We can't tell you what we're doing," Harry says flatly. "You're in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it with anyone else."

Fleur makes an impatient noise, but Bill doesn't look at her, instead staring at Harry. His deeply scarred face is hard to read. Finally, Bill says, "Alright. Who do you want to talk to first?"

Harry hesitates for a moment, before saying, "Griphook. I'll speak to Griphook first."

"Up here, then," Bill says, leading the way.

Harry and I walk up several steps, before stopping and looking back. "I need you two as well!"

He's addressing Ron and Hermione, who had been half skulking, half concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room. They both move into the light, looking oddly relieved.

"How are you?" Harry asks Hermione. "You were amazing - coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that - "

Hermione gives a weak smile as Ron gives her a one-armed squeeze.

"What are we doing now, Harry?" he asks.

"You'll see. Come on." Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I follow Bill up the steep stairs onto a small landing. Three doors led off it.

"In here," says Bill, opening the door into his and Fleur's room.

It has a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise. Harry moves to the window, turns his back on the spectacular view, and folds his arms. Hermione takes the chair beside the dressing table, while Ron sits on the arm. I move to the wall opposite them and lean against it.

The moment Bill leaves the room again, I turn to them and say, "Alright, I know a lot has happened and there haven't been a lot of opportunities to ask questions, but I've been away for three months, and clearly they've been eventful, so a recap would be nice right about now."

Immediately, and quite quickly, before Bill can return with Griphook, they give me a rundown on what I'm missed; Ron's return, aided by the Deluminator Dumbledore left him, and retrieving the sword of Gryffindor; destroying the locket; seeing Xenophilius Lovehood and finding out the strange symbol in Hermione's copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard was the sign of the Deathly Hallows, which related to the Tale of the Three Brothers and the gifts given to them by death - the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak; and everything in between, leading up to their capture. By the end of it, I'm left reeling, forced to come to the conclusion that the whole world could have turned upside down while I was captured and I wouldn't have known.

"So," I say weakly. "I suppose it's safe to say that you had loads of fun without me."

Just then, Bill reappears, carrying the little goblin, who he sets carefully down on the bed. Griphook grunts thanks and Bill leaves, closing the door behind them.

"I'm sorry to take you out of bed," Harry says. "How are your legs?"

"Painful," the goblin replies. "But mending."

He's still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wears a strange look; half defiant, half intrigued. I note the goblin's sallow skin, his long thin fingers, his black eyes. Fleur had removed his shoes; his long feet are dirty. He's larger than a house-elf, but not by very much. His domed head is much larger than a human's, too.

"You probably don't remember - " Harry begins.

" - that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?" Griphook says. "I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous."

Harry and the goblin look at each other, sizing each other up. I watch the goblin carefully, trying to get an idea of what he's like, how best to get on his good side.

"You buried the elf," Griphook says suddenly. "I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door."

"Yes," Harry says.

Griphook looks at him out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.

"You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter."

"In what way?" Harry asks, rubbing his forehead, over his scar.

"You dug the grave."

"So?"

Griphook does not answer.

"Griphook, I need to ask - "

"You also rescued a goblin."

"What?"

"You brought me here. Saved me"

"Well, I take it you're not sorry?" Harry says, a little impatiently, but I think I'm starting to understand what Griphook means when he calls Harry a strange wizard. I remember Grintlog saying that saving him was not something many wizards would do, calling me better than most of my kind simply for not letting him die. Griphook must be thinking along the same lines.

"No, Harry Potter," says Griphook, twisting the thin black beard on his chin with his finger, "but you are a very odd wizard."

"Right," Harry says. "Well, I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to me."

Griphook gives no sign of encouragement, but continues to frown at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him.

"I need to break into a Gringotts vault."

I whip around to look at Harry, stunned.

"Harry - " Hermione begins, as surprised as I am, but she's cut off by Griphook.

"Break into a Gringotts vault?" the goblin repeats, wincing a little as he shifts his position on the bed. "That's impossible."

"No, it isn't," Ron argues. "It's been done."

"Yeah," Harry says. "The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago."

"The vault in question was empty at the time," the goblin snaps, and I get the impression that even though Griphook is no longer at Gringotts, he's offended at the idea of its defences being breached. "Its protection was minimal."

"Well, the vault we need to get into isn't empty, and I'm guessing its protection will be pretty powerful," Harry says. "It belongs to the Lestranges."

I frown slightly, but then arrange my expression to look indifferent. It'l probably look better to Griphook if we all look united in this goal. At the very least, I think I look less astonished than Ron and Hermione.

"You have no chance," Griphook says flatly. "No chance at all. If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours - "

"Thief, you have been warned, beware - yeah, I know, I remember," Harry says. "But I'm not trying to get myself any treasure, I'm not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?"

The goblin looks slantwise at Harry, as though studying him.

"If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did no seek personal gain," Griphook says finally, "it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection or respect that you have shown this night. Not from wand-carriers."

"Wand-carriers," Harry repeats, the phrase falling oddly upon my ears.

"The rights to carry a wand," the goblin says quietly, "has long been contested between wizards and goblins."

"Well, goblins can do magic without wands," Ron points out.

 _But so can wizards_ , I think, looking down at the Cross of Elements on my fingers.  _Most of us just don't want to try because we never usually have to._

"That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wand-lore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!"

"Well, goblins won't share any of their magic, either," Ron argues. "You won't tell us how to make swords and armour the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never - "

"It doesn't mater," I cut in pointedly, noticing Griphook's rising colour. "I highly doubt this is about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature - "

Griphook gives a nasty laugh.

"But it is, it is precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes every more powerful, your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, house-elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand-carriers protests?"

"We do!" Hermione says suddenly, sitting up straight, her eyes bright. "We protest! And I'm hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I'm a Mudblood!"

"Don't call yourself - " Ron mutters.

"Why shouldn't I?" Hermione says. "Mudblood, and proud of it! I've got no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture back at the Malfoys!"

As she spoke, she pulls aside the neck of the dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat.

"Did you know it was Harry who set Dobby free?" she asks. "Did you know we've wanted elves to be freed for years?" (Ron fidgets uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione's chair.) "You can't want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!"

The goblin gazes at Hermione with the same curiosity he had shown Harry.

"What do you seek within the Lestranges' vault?" he asks abruptly. "The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one," he looks at each of us. "I think that you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there."

"But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it?" Harry asks. "Perhaps you've seen other things in there?"

I look between Harry and Griphook, realisation dawning on me slowly on what he means by other things. If Bellatrix was trusted to have the sword of Gryffindor in her vault - regardless of whether it was a fake, considering very few other people knew that - perhaps she was trusted to be storing one of Voldemort's Horcruxes.

Griphook twists his beard around his finger again, saying, "It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers."

The goblin strokes the sword, and his black eyes rove from Harry to me to Hermione to Ron and the back again.

"So young," he says finally, "to be fighting so many."

"Will you help us?" Harry says finally. "We haven't got a hope breaking in without a goblin's help. You're our one chance."

"I shalll... think about it," Griphook says maddeningly.

"But - " Ron starts angrily, but Hermione nudges him in the ribs.

"Thank you," Harry says.

The goblin bows his domed head in acknowledgement, then flexes his short legs.

"I think," he says, setting himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur's bed, "that the Skele-Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me..."

"Yeah, of course," I say. "Get well soon."

The goblin nods once in acknowledgement. Before leaving the room, Harry leans forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook doesn't protest, but I think I can see the resentment in the goblin's eyes as the door closes behind us.

"Little git," Ron whispers. "He's enjoying keeping us hanging."

 _Well, pissing him off isn't going to help the cause,_ I think, but only say, turning to Harry, "Harry, are you saying what I think you're saying? Do you think there could be a Horcrux in the Lestranges' vault?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we'd been in there, she was beside herself. Why? What did she think we'd seen, what else did she think we might have taken? Something she was petrified You-Know-Who would find out about."

"But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who's been, places he's done something important?" Ron says, looking baffled. "Was he ever inside the Lestranges' vault?"

"I don't know whether he was ever inside Gringotts," Harry replies. "He never had the gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley.

"I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he'd have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don't forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They were his most devoted servants before he fell, and they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it the night he came back, I heard him."

Harry rubs his scar before continuing.

"I don't think he'd have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you wand to hide, Hagrid told me... except for Hogwarts."

When Harry's finished, Ron shakes his head, looking about as impressed as I feel.

"You really understand him."

"Bits of him," Harry shrugs. "Bits... I just wish I'd understood Dumbledore as much. But we'll see. Come on - Ollivander now."

Bewildered but impressed, Ron, Hermione, and I follow him across the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur's. A weak, "Come in!" answers us.

The wandmaker lies on the twin bed farthest from the window. It looks like he hasn't moved at all from the last time I saw him. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I sit down side-by-side on the empty bed. The rising sun is not visible here; the room faces the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.

"Mr. Ollivander, I'm sorry to disturb you," Harry says.

"My dear boy," Ollivander says feebly. "You rescued us, I thought we would die in that place, I can never thank you... never thank you... enough."

"We were glad to do it," Harry says, then pauses, grimacing; his scar is hurting more than usual, I can tell. "Mr. Ollivander, I need some help."

"Anything. Anything."

"Can yo mend this? Is it possible?"

Ollivander holds out a trembling hand, and Harry places the two barely connected halves of his wand in his palm.

"Holly and phoenix feather," Ollivander says in a tremulous voice. "Eleven inches. Nice and supple."

"Yes," Harry says. "Can you - ?"

"No," Ollivander whispers. "I am sorry, very sorry, but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage cannot be repaired by any means that I know of."

Not much else was to be expected, but it's still disappointing to hear. Harry takes the wand halves back and replaces them in the pouch around his neck. Ollivander stares at the place where the shattered wand had vanished, not looking away until Harry takes out the two wands he had stolen from the Malfoys'.

"Can you identity these?" Harry asks.

The wandmaker takes the first of the wands and holds it closely to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.

"Walnut and dragon heartstring," he says. "Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange."

"And this one?"

Ollivander performs the same examinations on the other wand.

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy."

"You're saying was and belonged," I say, frowning slightly. "Past tense. Don't these wands still belong to them?"

"Perhaps not. If you took it?"

"I did - " Harry interjects.

" - then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change."

There was a silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.

"You talk about wands like they've got feelings," Harry says, "like they can think for themselves."

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander says. "That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."

"A person can still use a wand that hasn't chosen them, though?" Harry asks.

"Oh, yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand."

The sea gushes forward and backward; it's a mournful sort of sound.

"I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force," Harry says. "Can I use it safely?"

"I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master."

So I should use this one?" Ron says, pulling a different wand, I believe belonging to Wormtail, and handing it to Ollivander.

"Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine-and-a-quarter inches. Brittle. I was forced to make this shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and do it well, than another wand."

"And this holds true for all wands, does it?" Harry asks.

"I think so," Ollivander replies. "You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic."

"So, it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner to take the possession of a wand?" Harry asks.

Ollivander swallows. "Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill."

"There are legends, though," Harry says. "Legends about a wand - or wands - that have been passed from hand to hand by murder."

Ollivander turns pale. Against the snowy pillow he looks light grey, and his eyes are enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what I recognise as fear.

"Only one wand, I think," he whispers.

"And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn't he?" Harry asks.

"I - how?" Ollivander croaks, looking appealingly at Ron, Hermione, and I for help. "How do you know this?"

"He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our wands," Harry says.

Ollivander looks terrified. "He tortured me, you must understand that! The Cruciatus Curse, I - I had no choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed!"

"I understand," Harry says. "You told him about the twin cores? You said he just had to borrow another wizard's wand?"

Ollivander looks horrified, transfixed, by all that Harry knows. He nods slowly.

"But it didn't work," Harry goes on. "Mine still beat the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?"

Ollivander shakes his head as slowly as he had nodded.

"I had... never heard of such a thing. Your wand performed something unique that night. The connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet why your wand would have snapped the borrowed wand, I do not know..."

"We were talking about the other wand, the wand that changes hand by murder. When You-Know-Who realised my wand had done something strange, he came back and asked about that other wand, didn't he?"

"How do you know this?" Ollivander asks, but Harry doesn't answer. "Yes, he asked. He wanted to know everything I could tell him about the wand variously known at the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand."

My eyes widen slightly, sitting up straighter at the mention, at the possible confirmation of the existence of the Elder Wand.

"The Dark Lord," Ollivander says, in hushed and frightened tones, "had always been happy with the wand I made him - yes, phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches - until he discovered the connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another, more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer yours."

"But he'll know soon, if he doesn't know already, that mine's broken beyond repair," Harry says quietly.

"No!" Hermione says, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, Harry, how could he - ?"

"Priori Incantatem," Harry says. "We left your wand and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys', Hermione. If they examine them properly, make them re-create the spells they've cast lately, they'd see that yours broke mine, they'll see that you tried and failed to mend it, and they'll realise that I've been using the blackthorn one ever since."

The little colour she had regained since their arrival drains from her face.

Ron gives Harry a reproachful look and says, "Let's not worry about that now - "

But Mr. Ollivander intervenes. "The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. Potter. He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable."

"And will it?"

"the owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack," Ollivander points out, "but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit... formidable."

There's something about Ollivander's tone as he says this that I don't quite like. Even now, after being tortured and imprisoned by him, the idea of Lord Voldemort in possession of this wand, supposedly the most powerful wand ever created, seems to enthral him as much as it does repulse him.

"You - you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" Hermione asks tentatively.

"Oh, yes," Ollivander says. "Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand's course through history. There are gaps, and long ones, where it vanishes from view, temporarily lost or hidden; but it always resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognise. There are written accounts, some of them obscure, that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study. They have the ring of authenticity."

"So you - you don't think it could be a fairy tale or a myth?" she says hopefully.

"No," Ollivander says. "Whether it needs to be passed by murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that may be simply due to the fact that it is such a desirable object, and arouses such passion in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands."

"Mr. Ollivander," Harry says, "you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn't you?"

Ollivander, if possible, turns even paler, looking ghostly.

"But how - how do you - ?"

"Never mind how I know it," Harry says. "You told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?"

"It was a rumour," Ollivander whispers. "A rumour, years and years ago, long before you were born - I believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see how good it would be for business; that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand!"

"Yes, I can see that," Harry says, standing up. "Mr. Ollivander, one last thing, and then we'll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?"

"The - the what?" asks Ollivander, looking utterly bewildered.

"The Deathly Hallows."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Is this still something to do with wands?"

I look into Ollivander's sunken face and know he's not acting. He doesn't know about the Hallows at all.

"Thank you," Harry says. "Thank you very much. We'll leave you to get some rest now."

Ollivander looks stricken.

"He was torturing me!" he gasps. "The Cruciatus Curse... you have no idea..."

"Trust me, Mr. Ollivander, we do," I say. "We really do. Please get some rest. Thank you so much for your time."

Harry leads the way down the staircase again. I catch a glimpse of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen doorway, but we keep on walking and continue into the garden. The reddish mound of earth that covers Dobby lays ahead. Harry turns to face Ron, Hermione, and I.

"Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago," he says. "I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him. When he tracked him down, he found that Gregorovitch didn't have it anymore. It was stolen from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwand found out Gregorovitch had it, I don't know - but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread that rumour, it can't have been that difficult.

"And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he duelled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand."

"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" Ron says. "But then - where is it now?"

"At Hogwarts," Harry says shortly.

"But then, let's go!" Ron says urgently. "Harry, let's go and get it before he does!"

"It's too late for that," Harry says, shaking his head. "He knows where it is. He's there now."

I understand now why his scar hurts so much. He's been seeing Voldemort's mind, probably watching him as he journeys to Hogwarts to steal the most powerful wand of all time.

"Harry!" Ron says furiously. "How long have you know this - why have we been wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone - we could still go - "

"No," Harry says, sinking to his knees in the grass. "Hermione's right. Dumbledore didn't want me to have it. He didn't want me to take it. He wanted me to get the Horcruxes."

"The unbeatable wand, Harry!" Ron moans.

"I'm not supposed to... I'm supposed to get the Horcruxes."

"Never mind the Elder Wand," I say bracingly. "Whether or not we have it, we can't beat him until we destroy all the Horcruxes. Once we've done that, all the Elder Wands in the world won't stop us."

But Harry's long gone, seeing only what Voldemort must be seeing. With that, I sink to the ground in front of Harry, waiting to pull him back out when he goes too far.


	36. Teddy

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Teddy**

 

Bill and Fleur's cottage stands alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It's a lonely yet beautiful place. Wherever I go inside the tiny cottage or the garden, I can hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. It's quite relaxing. Though, I can't find many opportunities to feel very relaxed, especially with the enormity of Harry's decision to not race Voldemort to the Elder Wand hanging over us. Ron is particularly vocal about his doubts about the decision.

"What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the symbol in time to get the wand? What if working out the symbol is what made you 'worthy' to get the Hallows? Harry, if that's really the Elder Wand, how exactly are we supposed to finish off You-Know-Who?"

Those are but a few of the questions Ron has on the matter. They annoy me most because none of us have any answers to them.

Hermione, however, fully supports Harry's decision. She doesn't much like being forced to admit that the Elder Wand is real, but she's compensating by maintaining that it is an evil object and that the way Voldemort had taken possession of it was repulsive, not to be considered.

"You could never have done that, Harry," she says over and over. "You couldn't have broken into Dumbledore's grave."

But there was still no way of knowing for sure whether or not, for some strange reason, that was exactly what Dumbledore had wanted us to do. The utter lack of information that Dumbledore had left Harry with has never been more obvious.

"But  _is_ he dead?" Ron says, three days into our arrival at the cottage, as the four of us stare out over the wall that separates the cottage garden from the cliff.

"Yes, he is. Ron, please, don't start that again!"

"Look at the facts, Hermione," Ron says. "The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the mirror - "

"Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don't you, Harry?"

"I could have," Harry says, not looking at anybody.

"But you don't think you did, do you?" Ron asks.

"No, I don't."

"There you go!" Ron says quickly, before Hermione can say anything. "If it wasn't Dumbledore, explain how Dobby knew we were at the Malfoys', Hermione? Hazel told him to check the cellar, but how would he know to come at all?"

I had told them my entire story, from the moment I was taken away to the moment we saw each other again, including meeting up with Dobby, purposely changing the subject when they tried to offer me any sympathies. They all have different ways of acting about it. Harry's gaze flickers over to me more frequently than usual, as though to make sure I won't disappear again. Ron 'accidentally' touches me at time, as though to make sure I'm really solid and there, looking at me as though he can't fully believe that I'm there, acting nicer to me than usual to try to make it up to me over our fight. Hermione is prone to hugging me at random times, making sure to tell me often that she loves and appreciates me.

"I can't - but can you explain how Dumbledore sent him to us if he's lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?"

"I dunno, it could've been his ghost!"

"Dumbledore wouldn't come back as a ghost," Harry says with a surprising amount of certainty, considering how little we're all realising we know about Dumbledore. "He would've gone on."

"What d'you mean, 'gone on'?" Ron asks.

Before Harry can answer, a voice behind us says, "'Arry?"

Fleur comes out of the cottage, her long silvery hair flying in the breeze.

"'Arry, Grip'ook would like to speak to you. 'E eez in ze smallest bedroom, 'e says 'e does not want to be over'eard."

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages was clear' she looks irritable as she walks back around the house.

Griphook is waiting for us, as Fleur had said, in the tiniest of the cottage's three bedrooms, in which Hermione, Luna, and I sleep. He has drawn the red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, giving me room a fiery glow at odds with the rest of the airy, light cottage.

"I have reached my decision, Harry Potter," says the goblin, sitting cross-legged in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. "Though the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you - "

"That's great!" Harry says, relief surging through him. "Griphook, thank you, we're really - "

" - in return," the goblin says, "for payment."

We're all slightly taken aback, hesitating.

"How much do you want?" I say, recovering quickly. "We can give you gold. Lots of it."

"Not gold," Griphook says. "I have gold."

His black eyes glitter; there are no whites to his eyes.

"I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor."

My heart drops, my former excitement fading fast.

"You can't have that," Harry says. "I'm sorry."

"Then," the goblin says softly, "we have a problem."

"We can give you something else," Ron says eagerly. "I'll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault."

It's the wrong thing to say. Griphook flushes angrily.

"I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no right!"

"The sword's ours - "

"It is not," says Griphook.

"We're Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor's - "

"And before it was Gryffindor's, whose was it?" the goblin demands, sitting up straight.

"No one's," Ron says. "It was made for him, wasn't it?"

"No!" the goblin cries, bristling with anger as he points a long finger at Ron. "Wizarding arrogance again! The sword was Ragnuk the First's, taken from him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a - a masterpiece of goblin work! It belongs with the goblins! The sword is my price of hire, take it or leave it!"

Griphook glares at us. Harry glances over at Ron, Hermione, and I, then says, "We need to discuss this, Griphook, if that's alright. Could you give us a few minutes?"

The goblin nods, looking sour.

Downstairs, in the empty sitting room, I sit down in an arm chair, my brow furrowed, trying to figure out a way around this.

Ron says, "He's having a laugh. We can't let him have that sword."

"Is it true? Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?" Harry asks, addressing Hermione, who's bound to have read about this in one of her books.

"I don't know," Hermione says helplessly, surprising me. "Wizarding history often skates over what wizards have done to other magical races, but there's no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword."

"It'll be one of those goblin stories," says Ron, "about how wizards are always trying to get one over them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn't asked for one of our wands."

"Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron," Hermione says. "They've been treated brutally in the past."

"Goblins aren't exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?" Ron says. "They've killed plenty of us. They've fought dirty, too."

"But I imagine arguing with Griphook about which magical race is the most underhanded and violent isn't going to change his mind about helping us," I interject.

There's a pause as we all try to think of a way around the problem.

"Okay," Ron says suddenly, "how's this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault - and then he can have it. There's a fake in there, isn't there? We switch them, and give him the fake."

"Ron, he'd know the different better than we would!" Hermione says. "He's the only one who realised there had been a swap!"

"Yeah but he kind of - caper before he realises - "

He quails beneath the look Hermione gives him.

"That," she says quietly, "is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don't like wizards, Ron?"

Ron's ears had turned red.

"Alright, alright! It's the only thing I could think of! What's your solution, then?"

"We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable."

"Brilliant, I'll go and get one of our ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it."

Silence falls between us again. I have a feeling Griphook won't accept anything but the sword, even if we did happen to find something just as valuable. But the sword is the one thing we can't lose, the only weapon we have against the Horcruxes.

I bow my head, closing my eyes and listening to the rush of the sea. The idea of Gryffindor stealing the sword from a goblin is particularly unpleasant, almost sickening to me. I'd always been quite proud to be a Gryffindor, though Gryffindor would be above an action like that, something that only the pureblood-loving Slytherin would do...

"Maybe he's lying," Harry says, and I open my eyes and look up at him. "Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn't take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history's right?"

"I don't think he's lying," I say, shaking my head. "Maybe he's a very good actor, but he seemed genuine. And I don't think there's anything we can do to change his mind about the sword, either. If we let him know how badly we want the sword, that's just going to make him more unwilling to give it up. Whether it's true or not, he believes that wizards stole that sword from goblins. The idea of a goblin stealing it back from wizards probably sounds like justice to him."

"Does it even make a difference?" Hermione asks.

"Changes how I feel about it," Harry shrugs, then takes a deep breath. "We'll tell him he can have the sword after he's helped us get into the vault - but we'll be careful to avoid telling him exactly  _when_ he can have it."

A grin spreads slowly across Ron's face. I stare at Harry, stunned. Hermione, however, looks alarmed.

"Harry, we can't - "

"He can have it," Harry goes on, "after we've used it on all the Horcruxes. I'll make sure he gets it then. I'll keep my word."

"But what could be years!" Hermione says.

"I know that, but  _he_ needn't. I won't be lying... really."

For a moment, Harry and Hermione stared each other down. Then, the latter says, "I don't like it."

"Nor do I, much," Harry admits.

"Well, I think it's genius," Ron says.

"And I think we don't have any other choice," I say, standing up. "Come on, let's go back and tell him."

Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry makes the offer, careful to phrase it so as not to give any definitive time for the handover of the sword. I'm a little irritated by Hermione, who frowns at the floor all while he speaks, but luckily, Griphook has eyes only for Harry.

"I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?"

"Yes," Harry says.

"Then shake," says the goblin, holding out his hand.

Harry takes his hand and shakes it. Then Griphook releases him, claps his hands together, and says, "So. We begin!"

It feels like planning to break into the Ministry, like planning my escape from Malfoy Manor, all over again. We settle to work in the smallest bedroom, which is kept, according to Griphook's preference, in semidarkness.

"I have visited the Lestranges' vault only once," Griphook informs us, "on the occasion I was told to place inside the false sword. It is one of the most ancient chambers. The oldest Wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults are largest and best protected..."

We remain shut in the cupboard-like room for hours at a time. Slowly, the days stretch into weeks. There's problem after problem to go over, not least of which is that our store of Polyjuice Potion is greatly depleted.

"There's really only enough left for one of us," Hermione says, tilting the thick mud-like potion against the lamplight.

"That'll be enough," Harry says, as he and I examine Griphook's hand-drawn map of the deepest passageways.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage find it hard to ignore that something is going on now that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I only emerge for mealtimes. Nobody asks any questions, though I sometimes feel Bill's eyes on the four of us at the table, thougtful, concerned.

The more time I'm forced to spend with him, the more I realise that I really do not like Griphook. The goblin is unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughing at the idea of pain in lesser creatures and relishing the possibility that we might have to hurt other wizards to reach the Lestranges' vault. I can tell that the other three share my distaste for the goblin, but we never discuss it. The fact is that we need Griphook, no matter how we might feel about it.

Griphook eats only grudgingly with the rest of us. Even after his legs have mended, he continues to request trays of food to his room, like the still-frail Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst from Fleur) finally goes upstairs to tell him that the arrangement cannot continue. Afterwards, Griphook joins us at the overcrowded table, though he refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead on lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi.

Mr. Ollivander leaves for Auntie Muriel's place one night near supper time, still looking exceptionally frail, clinging to Bill's arm as the latter supports him, carrying a large suitcase.

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander," says Luna, approaching the old man.

"And I you, my dear," Ollivander says, patting her on the shoulder. "You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place."

"So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander," Fleur says, kissing him on both cheeks. "And I wonder whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill's Auntie Muriel? I never returned 'er tiara."

"It will be an honour," Ollivander says with a little bow, "the very least I can do in return for your generous hospitality."

Fleur draws out a worn velvet case, which she opens to show the wandmaker. The two sit glittering and twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

"Moonstones and diamonds," Griphook says, having sidled into the room without me noticing. "Made by goblins, I think?"

"And paid for by wizards," Bill says quietly, and the goblin shoots him a look that's both furtive and challenging.

"Bill, could you do me a favour once you're there?" I say, approaching him tentatively.

"Of course, Hazel," Bill says, nodding. "What is it?"

"Could you tell them that I'm not dead?" I ask. "Could you tell them from me that I'm okay? And - er - if they ask for proof," I add on an impulse, "give Fred this."

I take off the charm necklace Fred had given me years ago. Thankfully, the Death Eaters hadn't taken it from me, considering it worthless; it was a years old charm necklace with seemingly random, meaningless charms on it, and not a very expensive one, either. I place it not in Bill's hands carefully, as though it could shatter at any moment.

"Give that to Fred," I say again, swallowing. "Give that to him from me and they'll know I'm alive, okay? Please do that for me."

He looks down at the necklace for a time, an odd expression on his face. Then he pats my hand with his own and says, smiling, "Of course."

I smile gratefully, thank him, and move away before I can do something silly like cry at the thought of Fred seeing the necklace again.

A strong wind gusts against the cottage windows as Bill and Ollivander set of into the night. The rest of us squeeze in around the table, elbow to elbow and with barely enough room to move, beginning to eat. The fire crackles and pops in the grate beside us. I still haven't quite adjusted to being able to eat actually full meals again. Fleur, I notice, only really plays with her food, glancing out the window every few minutes; however, Bill returns before we finish the first course, his long hair tangled by the wind.

"Everything's fine," he tells Fleur. "They're all more than relieved to find out you're alive, Hazel," he adds to me, and relief floods through me. "The necklace was a nice touch, too. Ollivander settled in, Mum and Dad says hello. Ginny sends all her love, Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall, they're still operating an Owl-Order business out of her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara back, though. She said she thought we'd stolen it."

"Ah, she eez charmant, your aunt," Fleur says crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates to rise and form a stack in midair. She catches them and marches out of the room.

"Daddy's made a tiara," Luna pipes up. "Well, more of a crown, really."

I wonder if she's referring to the ludicrous headdress that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had seen when they visited the Lovegood home. Judging from the amused looks on Harry and Ron's faces, that is the case.

"Yes, he's trying to recreate the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. He thinks he's identified most of the main elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made a difference - "

There's a bang on the front door. Everyone's heads turn towards it. Fleur comes running out of the kitchen, looking frightened. Bill jumps to his feet, pointing his wand at the door. Harry, Ron, Hermione, ad I all do the same. Silently, Griphook slips beneath the table, out of sight.

"Who is it?" Bill calls.

"It is I, Remus John Lupin!" a voice calls over the howling wind, and a thrill passes through me. "I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!"

"Lupin," Bill mutters, and he runs to the door and wrenches it open.

Remus falls over the threshold, and my heart nearly stops. He's white-faced, wrapped in a travelling cloak, his greying hair windswept. He straightened up, looking around the room, making sure of who's there. He stops dead when he looks at me. For a moment, we simply stare at each other in dead silence.

"Ha-Hazel," he stutters out weakly, staring at me as though he can't really believe I'm there. " _Hazel_. It's - it's - you're here - you're  _alive_ \- I heard rumours - only rumours - but I didn't believe - I didn't  _let_ myself believe that you were really - you're alive!"

And in a few short strides, he walks over to me and pulls me into a hug so tight he could have crushed me then and there. For a moment, I stand there in shock, not moving. I expect him to move away at any moment, to call me a silly little girl that means nothing to him again, but it does not happen. If anything, he pulls me closer to him, hugging me almost protectively, as though he means to shelter me from any and all danger. Finally, tentatively, I hug him back tightly, burying my head in his chest and hugging him in the same way I expect daughters hug their fathers.

"Oh, thank God," he murmurs, "thank  _God._ When I read the  _Prophet_ that morning, I couldn't - I couldn't wrap my head around it - you  _dead_ \- oh, thank God, Hazel, thank  _God_."

He pulls away, holding me at arm's length, examining me carefully.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Remus says.

"I'm alive," I say carefully. "I've healed as much as I can."

"What - what happened?" he asks, looking worried at my answer.

"Long story," I reply. "Can probably wait, especially if there's an emergency?"

"Oh - yes - yes," Remus says, taking a step back, looking as though he forgot why he came here in the first place. "Yes - it's a boy! We've named him Ted, after Dora's father!"

For a moment, there's silence, as those words register in everyone's minds. Then, almost at once, everyone understands what he means.

Hermione shrieks.

"Wha - Tonks - Tonks has had the baby?"

"Yes, yes, she's had the baby!" Remus shouts, regaining his excitement.

All around the table comes cries of delight, sighs of relief. Hermione and Fleur both squeal, "Congratulations!" and Ron says, "Blimey, a baby!" as if he's never heard of one before.

"Yes - yes - a boy!" Remus says again, almost dazed by his own happiness. He hugs me once more, saying, "You have a godbrother! Oh, you'll love each other, I know it!"

He gives my shoulders one last squeeze, taking me in, before striding around the table and hugging Harry. The scene in the basement of Grimmauld Place might never have happened with the way he's acting.

"You'll be godfather?" he says, releasing Harry.

"M-Me?" Harry stammers, and even I'm a little surprised, though still delighted at the prospect.

"You, yes, of course - Dora quite agrees, no one better - "

"I - yeah - blimey - "

The whole thing is so overwhelming, so astonishing, so confusing, but still so wonderful. Now Bill is hurrying to fetch wine, and Fleur's persuading Remus to join them for a drink.

"I can't stay long, I must get back," Remus says, beaming around at them all; he looks years younger than I've ever seen him; is this the way he always should have looked, the way he would have looked if years of suffering and loneliness and pain hadn't forced him to grow up too fast? "Thank you, thank you, Bill!"

Bill has soon filled all of our goblets; we all stand and raise them high in a toast.

"To Teddy Remus Lupin," says Remus, "a great wizard in the making!"

"'Oo does 'e look like?" Fleur inquires.

"I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he's like me. Not much hair. It looked black when he was born, but I swear it's turned ginger in the hour since. Probably blond by the time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks' hair colour started changing the day she was born," he drains his goblet. "Oh, go on, then, just one more," he adds, beaming, as Bill makes to fill it again.

The wind buffets the little cottage and the fire leaps and crackles, and Bill is soon opening another bottle of wine. Remus' news seems to have taken us out of ourselves, removes us for a while from our state of siege. Tidings of new life are unexpectedly exhilarating. Only the goblin seems untouched by the suddenly festive atmosphere, and after a while he slinks back to the bedroom he now occupies alone. I think I'm the only one to notice, until I see Harry and Bill's eyes following the goblin up the stairs.

"No... no... I really must get back," Remus says at last, declining yet another goblet of wine. He gets to his feet, saying, "But first... I'd really like a word with you in private, Hazel."

The sudden seriousness to his tone makes me nervous all over again. Would he go back to insulting me again just like that?

However, I simply say, "Yeah, sure," and follow him out into the empty, shadowy hallway.

Immediately, he says, "Hazel... I must apologise. And I must tell you... when I thought you were dead... it tore me apart, Hazel. The thought of losing someone else I loved, especially you... I may have a son now, but you have always been a daughter to me. I've always loved you like you were my daughter, and I was supposed to protect you like you were, and I failed."

"But there's nothing you could have done - " I say immediately.

"Regardless, as though to make my grief worse, it felt as though I failed in my duty as a protector to you. And perhaps the worst part was the thought that you died thinking that I didn't value you as a person, that I didn't love you, even thinking that I hated you. I just want you to know that that is not the case. It has never been the case. Do you understand this? I love you, I care about you, I do."

"I love you, too, Remus," I say, smiling up at him weakly. "I mean, you're not entirely at fault. I probably should've been a little more sensitive to what you were feeling."

"But if you and Harry had been more sensitive, I may not have come to my senses and returned to Tonks," he points out. "I just want you to know... that in times of uncertainty like this... I do not ever want you to question that I love you and that I see you as a daughter."

"Don't worry, Remus," I say. "It's in the past. It's fine. We're fine. I swear. Now, you probably want to know what happened to me?"

He nods once. "If you don't mind telling me."

So, once again, I tell my story from start to finish, careful to leave out any details of the mission left by Dumbledore. Remus is wide-eyed by the time I'm finished.

"Hazel, I'm so sorry that happened to you - "

"You don't need to feel sorry for me - " I say immediately.

"But," he continued, "I am so proud of your strength and your courage. What you have done in three months at your age is something many could never dream to do. You're truly one of the bravest people I have ever met. And I am so glad you're safe."

He hugs me again, tighter than before, and this time, I hug him back without hesitation, smiling to myself.

"And now," I say, pulling away from him, "you should probably get back to your wife and son."

"That, I should," he agrees, smiling. We return to the others as Remus pulls his travelling cloak around himself. "Goodbye, goodbye - I'll try to bring some pictures in a few days' time - they'll all be so glad to know that I've seen you - and that you're alive, Hazel, oh, they'll be so relieved - "

He fastens his cloak, bids farewell to everyone, wraps me in one last hug for good measure, then, still beaming, returns into the wild night. I watch him go with a wide smile. I'm sad to leave him again, but everything about his visit has lifted my spirits. Unable to remember the last time I felt so light, I return to the others with a grin on my face and a goblet of wine still in hand.

 

***

 

Fred Weasley fancied himself a very good actor. He had always been a fairly good liar (you had to be, when you were as prone to getting involved in mischief as he was), but lately he had been outdoing himself. He was continuing on with life as though nothing had happened; or, at least, continuing with life the best he could when in hiding in his batty old aunt's house; he was continuing with the Owl-Order business behind Muriel's back, making sure everyone else was okay and laughing (well, except for Muriel; there was no pleasing her), and generally acting like nothing was wrong.

It was quite difficult, though, since everything was wrong. Hazel was dead and now everything was wrong. Everything felt worse. Jokes weren't as funny, food tasted worse, he could rarely bring himself to sleep, all his smiles and laughter were forced, even breathing felt wrong. More difficult. Still, he was doing his best to act as though nothing was wrong, because what choice did he have? Giving up wasn't an option, not in times like these, so he acted like he was as fine as ever.

Fred was pretty sure they didn't believe him, though. No one tried to talk to him about it, likely because he knew he wouldn't talk about it, because he  _couldn't_ bring himself to talk about it. He hadn't brought it up at all since he cried on his mother's shoulder the day he found out. If he talked about it, he would break down all over again, and he was certain he wouldn't be able to pick himself back up after that. Still, Fred was almost certain that they knew he wasn't as okay as he tried to act. That could have been for a lot of reasons - the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, the fact that he often straight up refused to eat, or the fact that he had never really made it a secret that he loved - still did love - Hazel. But he was trying, and all things considered, he was doing a good job.

Living while Hazel Knight was dead was living with a stab wound in the chest, an aching sensation that varied from dull to sharp in turn. It felt like running a race with no goal, no finish line. It made him realise that Hazel had been the finish line this whole time; the reason he was dealt with the horrors of this war as bravely as he could, the reason he had charged on from day to day was the promise of seeing Hazel again, of being able to be with her once more, and now that was gone, and now he was running, running, running, but he had lost the purpose the moment he read the headline that told him she was dead.

 _This is what she warned you about, stupid boy_ , he thought sometimes.  _This is what she was trying to protect you from, this feeling. Even then, she was trying to protect you. And you didn't listen._

But how was he supposed to listen? Loving Hazel was a part of him, he could no sooner get rid of it than get rid of his freckles or the scar on his left arm from an accident while playing Quidditch. And he had never wanted to get rid of it, even as the pain of being away from her and not knowing anything about where she was overwhelmed him. Loving Hazel made him feel bigger, made him feel fuller, warmer, lighter. He hadn't imagined it could bring him so low.

Or maybe he should have begged her to stay with him physically. Begged her not to go with Harry, Ron, and Hermione to do whatever the hell they had to do, begged her to stay where she could be as safe as she could get, begged her not to go where he couldn't follow. Maybe he would have been able to convince her, maybe that would have kept her safe, maybe she would still be alive, still be breathing.

But that was useless, too. Hazel was meant to be a hero; meant to charge into danger and save the world, and she would never settle for anything else, no matter how much safer it was. Besides, she was too loyal to Harry; she had made a promise to him to help bring down You-Know-Who, and she would never have been able to go back on that promise, not ever. It was part of what Fred loved about her so much.

In any case, why was he lingering on what could have happened so much? It didn't happen, so why bother worrying about it? That had always been his philosophy, but now he couldn't stop thinking about it. Because he couldn't stop thinking about Hazel, because he wanted nothing more for her to be alive, but she was dead and gone likely somewhere in the ground, rotting away until there was nothing left - 

He was brought mercifully out of his thoughts by George walking into the room, before he could do anything awful like cry again. George only needed to take one look at him to know what he had been thinking about. He didn't mention it.

"Bill's here with Ollivander," George said. "He wants you down here. Says he's got important news for all of us."

"Okay," Fred said, standing up and following George out of their shared bedroom. "Has Muriel started complaining yet?"

"Yeah, but don't worry, you haven't missed any of the good stuff, yet," George said. "She's just getting started."

"I'm just waiting for Ginny to lose it and knock her out cold," Fred said. "That's what I'll call the good stuff."

"You and me both, Freddie," George said, as they reached the sitting room, just as Mum was gently guiding Mr. Ollivander to one of the downstairs bedrooms, while Dad carried the suitcase into the room.

Fred walked forward and gave his brother a quick hug, relieved to see he was alright. They pulled away just as Mum and Dad returned to the sitting room.

"How is everything? If everything alright?" Mum asked Bill.

"As fine as they can be," Bill replied.

"And what is this important news you have for us?" Auntie Muriel said impatiently, looking as though she didn't particularly care either way. "Maybe an explanation as to why I'm hosting a wandmaker now, I hope? Though it will likely be more dreadful news, I expect. Well, at least you brought my tiara. I was beginning to think you stole it."

Bill ignored her; that was the only thing to do if you didn't want an argument.

"The news explains why," Bill said. "But it's a bit - complicated, and I don't know everything, but I'll start with this: Hazel's alive."

Fred froze. Everyone did, in fact.

"What do you mean, she's alive?" Charlie said sharply, his eyes wide. "How do you know?"

"It's a long story, and again, it's complicated, but I'll explain as best as I can," Bill said, and so he did explain; explained Hazel's capture, her imprisonment with the Malfoys, her escape, her journey to find Harry, Ron, and Hermione again, returning to Malfoy Manor, and everything that Bill knew of of what happened at Malfoy Manor, including rescuing Ollivander, Luna Lovegood, and Dean Thomas, and a goblin called Griphook. "... and she told me to tell you that she was alive and well - or as well as she can be, at least. And she told me that, if you needed proof, to give you this, Fred."

With that, Bill pulls out from the pocket of his robes something that made Fred's heart leap, which hadn't happened in weeks. He was holding the charm necklace that Fred had given Hazel so long ago, every single charm still in tact. Only Hazel would have had that. Bill would have only had it now if Hazel gave it to him. Fred was the first to move again, walking forward slowly, as though careful of ruining everything. He extended his arms slowly, and Bill placed the necklace in his hands.

He turned the necklace over and over again in his hands, examining each charm carefully, making sure nothing was out of order. Something about holding it in his hands, confirming that it was solid, that it was real, not something he was hallucinating, confirmed it. His heart was lifting, swelling slowly but surely in his chest, a dangerous happiness that he hadn't felt in so long.

"She's alive?" he said quietly, looking over at Bill again.

"She's alive," he nodded once. "I saw her. She wanted me to tell you. And she wanted you to have that."

Slowly, everyone else started to react. Dad collapsed into a chair, holding his head in his hands, relief breaking across his face. Mum sat down on the arm of the chair, rubbing his back and murmuring about how  _wondeful_ this was, tears brimming in her eyes. Ginny was pacing up and down the room, beaming and going back and forth between saying she was going to hug Hazel for three hours the next time she saw her and saying she was going to kick her head in for scaring her so much. Charlie was grinning, relieved, and advised Ginny to go with the first option. George put an arm around his brother, looking happier, more relieved than Fred had seen him in a long, long time. The atmosphere had lightened several degrees.

And then Fred, still clutching onto the necklace, started crying.

He should have been embarrassed, but he couldn't help it. Everything was starting to work normally again, there was a purpose to all of the running, she was not gone. She was still alive, still breathing, still running around being a hero, he would still see her again. It was all so much to take in at once that he started crying.

George pulled his brother closer, looking alarmed. "Hey, mate, she's alright, she's fine, she's alive. I knew it, I always knew she would be."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Auntie Muriel says in exasperation. "He cries when she's dead, he cries when she's alive, he can never be happy! Calm down, young man, your girlfriend can keep ruining her knees for your benefit."

Fred was too happy to tell her to shut up.

He had stopped crying, which was a relief to the rest of his family members, laughing now instead. It was hard to contain his joy. Not only was Hazel still alive, but she had given specifically him the necklace to prove it. The necklace was not only confirmation that she was alive, but it was a message, he was sure of it; a message that they were not finished, that she still had feelings for him, that she was waiting for him the way he was waiting for her. For a moment, he almost forgot that the war wasn't over. The finish line was there again, and that was all that mattered.

Bill made sure Fred was okay before departing for Shell Cottage, which was unnecessary, because Fred was more okay than he had been in a long time.

"Is dinner ready?" Fred asks, once Bill was gone. "I'm starving."

Ginny's face split into a grin as she said, "Yeah, he's back."

And feeling lighter than he had in a month, he followed the rest of his family into the dining room.


	37. Gringotts Bank

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Gringotts Bank**

 

The plans were made, the preparations complete. In the smallest bedroom, a single long, course black hair (plucked from the jumper Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor) lies curled in a small glass phial on the matelpiece.

"And you'll be using her actual wand," Harry says, nodding to the small walnut wand, "so I reckon you'll be pretty convincing."

I nod, making myself look cool and unconcerned as I pick up the wand in question and turn it over carefully in my fingers, almost expecting it to bite and sting me, harm me in some way, the way its owner had made a habit of doing. Still, I can't complain much about having to use the wand, as I had volunteered to be the one that turned into Bellatrix. It was the only thing that made sense to me. I had seen Bellatrix every single day for two months straight, gotten up close and personal with her for hours at a time, whether I had liked it or not. Even though much of the time I had been distracted, almost blinded by the pain she was inflicting on me, even if I don't like admitting it, I  _know_ Bellatrix. I know the way she walked, the way she talked, her different mannerisms and ticks, her different facial expressions and what they meant, the things that set her off and made her furious. I'm the best one to impersonate her. Besides, when Harry had pointed out that either Hermione or I would have to turn into Bellatrix, as hard as she had tried to hide it, Hermione had been horrified. She hasn't gotten over being tortured by Bellatrix yet. I could never put Hermione through something like that, especially not so soon.

"Are you okay?" Harry says, looking at me carefully.

"I'm fine," I say quickly, before they can get any ideas and think I won't be able to handle impersonating Bellatrix. "It's just... it won't work for me properly. The wand, I mean. Since it's not mine. And I don't know if I'll be able to make it  _feel_ like its mine, even when I look like her. It feels like holding a bit of her. I know I have to use it, mind you - it makes me look more believable, and Hermione's going to need to borrow my wand, but... I just don't like it much, that's all."

"It must help get into character a little bit though," Ron point out. "Think about what that wand's done!"

"That's the point!" I say. "This wand didn't just torture all of us, it tortured Neville's parents and who knows who else. This wand - this wand killed Sirius."

It looks as though the thought had not occurred to anyone else. I suddenly feel quite guilty bringing it up. At the very least, the day before we attempt to break into Gringotts is likely a bad time to bring up something as painful as Sirius' death.

"I miss my wand," Hermione says miserably, breaking the silence. "I wish Mr. Ollivander could have made me another one, too."

Ollivander, out of obvious fondness for Luna, sent her a new wand this morning. She's outside at the moment, testing out the wand's capabilities. Dean, who had lost his wand to the Snatchers, is watching the scene rather gloomily.

The door of the bedroom opens and Griphook enters. Almost on instinct, Harry reaches for the hilt of the sword and brings it closer to him. This is a bad move, because Griphook notices and doesn't seem very pleased by the action.

Attempting to gloss over the sticky moment, I say, "We've just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook. We told Bill and Fleur that we're leaving tomorrow, and we told them not to get up to see us off."

We were particularly firm on that front, as I would need to transform into Bellatrix before we leave, and the less they know about what we're doing, the better. We also explained to them that we would not be returning, seeing it as the wiser option, especially if our break-in ends in disaster, which has always been the more likely option. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione had lost Perkin's old tent when the Snatchers caught them, Bill lends us another one. It's not packed inside Hermione's beaded bag, which she managed to hide from the Snatchers the same way I managed to hide my Cross of Elements: by stuffing it in her sock.

I play with my Cross of Elements on my finger now. I wish I could wear it tomorrow; a little extra power would certainly be helpful on a mission like this one. There were different versions of the Cross of Elements, made by different wizards, but this particular version is known to have been made by Dumbledore, and there weren't many good explanations as to why Dumbledore would give such a powerful object to a Death Eater, especially one like Bellatrix, especially if the goblins at Gringotts know that Dumbledore had left it to me. I could say that Bellatrix took it from me after my death, but for something like this, the fewer connections that are drawn to Hazel Knight, the better.

I'm going to miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, not to mention the home comforts that we've been able to enjoy for the last few weeks, but I can't deny that a part of me is also excited to be leaving Shell Cottage. It gets tiring, having to make sure we're not being overheard, having to stay holed up in a tiny, dark bedroom for hours at a time. Most of all, I'm excited to get away from Griphook. However, exactly how and when we're going to get away from the goblin without handing over the sword of Gryffindor is a question none of us have an answer to yet. It's impossible to decide on how to do it, because the goblin rarely leaves Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I alone for more than five minutes at a time.

"He could give my mother lessons," Ron growls, as Griphook's long fingers appear around the edges of doors.

A part of me is beginning to suspect that the goblin is on the watch for hints of us betraying him. Hermione is so against the plan to double cross Griphook that she refuses to offer up any ideas on how to do it, and Harry, Ron, and I don't get enough Griphook-free moments for more than Ron to say wisely, "We'll just have to wing it, mate."

After supper, when night is beginning to fall, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are all sitting in the smallest bedroom yet again. We've just finished going over the plan one last time, having memorised it off by heart now. I'm playing with the Cross of Elements idly again, watching it turn from a ball of fire, to wind, to water, to earth over and over again. Watching it reminds me of Sir Phineas. I'll need to talk to him soon; before we leave tomorrow, at least.

"Are you sure you can't bring that with you?" Ron says suddenly, and I turn to see him pointing at the Cross of Elements.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes with difficulty; not only has Ron asked this question more than once, getting the same answer each time, but, admittedly, as petty and stupid as it probably is, a part of me still hasn't completely forgiven him for his words before he left.

"No, I can't," I say impatiently, "because it's well known that this ring belonged to Dumbledore and there's a chance that the goblins at Gringotts know that he left it to me in his will. I could just say that Bellatrix took it from me after she killed me, but the fewer connection that they can draw between me and Bellatrix, the better for the plan. So for the last time, I can't."

"Right," Ron says, looking slightly discouraged by my words. "Right, well, I only meant... it'd be nice to have and all. It definitely helped you out before. You know, when - when you were - "

"When I was captured?" I say sharply. "When I left by force instead of choice? When I didn't conveniently have a  _tiny ball of light_ in my heart to make everything easy for me? Did you mean then?"

There's a silence at these words. Before I can regret my outburst too much, Ron says, slightly awkwardly, clearing his throat, "Well - well, yeah, but - "

I scoff and shake my head, getting up and striding out of the room. I pass Griphook as I walk down the hall, who gives me a strange look, but I barely even acknowledge him. Not wanting to be around people after my admittedly shameful, admittedly immature, admittedly stupid outburst, I walk out the cottage, giving Luna and Dean a wide berth so they won't call out to me. I walk until I've reached the shore of the beach, sitting down, taking off my boots and socks, and rolling up my trousers, letting the waves splash at my ankles as I stare out into the horizon.

My outburst was a mistake. I know that already. As much as I don't like it, I know I'll have to apologise to Ron later. Sighing, I run a hand through my hair before playing with the wet sand idly, letting it slip through my fingers.

"Hazel?" a voice says.

Recognising it, I freeze for a moment. I glance over behind me and see, as I expected, Ron standing a few feet behind me. I look straight ahead again, over at the horizon, momentarily at war with myself on how to respond, finally just saying, "Hi, Ron."

"Can I - d'you mind if I sit?" he asks.

I shrug. "Go for it."

He sits down next to me, stripping off his shoes and socks and rolling up his trousers as I had done. For a time, neither of us say anything. I start to wonder why he even found me if he wasn't going to say anything, but I find I can't be too annoyed with him when I'm putting off apologising the way I know I have to do so eventually. Finally, knowing that the sooner I apologise, the better, that our mission tomorrow will be difficult enough without me complicating it further, I say, "Look, Ron, I'm sorry about what I - "

"Don't apologise," he says suddenly. I stare at him. He's quick to elaborate. "I mean - you shouldn't apologise. I should be apologising. I've been meaning to - you know, for everything I said to you - but I just... never got around to it."

"You never got around to it," I repeat blankly.

"Yeah," Ron says. "Well - no, actually, I mean - I've been sort of... scared to. I - look, Hazel, you have to understand, when I left, I wanted to come back the minute after. But by the time I built up the courage, you were already gone, and I had no way of finding you. When I finally found Harry and Hermione again, I was planning out what I'd say to apologise, but then I found out you'd been captured. When I thought you were dead... it nearly drove me mad, it did, but one of the worst bits of all was the fact that I thought you died before I could apologise, that you died thinking I really meant all those things about you, that I hated you. The fact that maybe you died hating me. And then I saw you again, and I know I should've apologised and said all of it the first chance I got, but after everything, I guess I just... got scared. So this is it, I suppose... me apologising. And it might be too late, but I really am sorry. That's all."

I'm silent for a moment, taking in his words, shocked by them. Whatever I'd been expecting from Ron when he came over here, it wasn't that.

"I - I didn't hate you," I finally say, rather lamely. "And I don't think I thought you hated me, but... what you said did hurt a lot, especially since it came from you. And I just didn't know how to react when I saw you again, I guess. But you're still one of my very best friends. And I don't - I don't want to lose you."

"So," he begins, "are we good?"

"Yeah," I respond, throwing an arm around him, as the waves crash against our ankles over and over. "Yeah, we're good."

We stay sitting on the beach for a while longer, talking lowly and laughing over old jokes we probably still shouldn't find funny, until it's fully dark out and decide we should be getting back to the others. I leap to my feet, before extending my arms to help Ron up. He looks slightly surprised, like he thought I was still too mad at him for something like that, before smiling and taking my hand, using it to help pull himself to his feet.

"Race you back to the cottage, yeah?" I say with a grin, and with that, break into a run.

"OI - STOP!" Ron calls after me. "THAT'S NOT FAIR!"

I only laugh at that, continuing to run at top speed. A few seconds later, I can hear him running after me. I smile wider, but keep running. I win by a landslide, but that's only to be expected with my considerable head start.

Harry, Hermione, Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean are all in the sitting room when we return, breathless and laughing together. They all look relieved to see us, which I'm confused about for a moment, until I realise they're likely relieved that everything is alright between Ron and I again. We exchange glances, before walking over to sit on either side of Harry and Hermione on the sofa.

Soon everyone is breaking off to go to bed, except Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I, who stay seated. Fleur glances over at us and advises that we head off to bed soon. We promise to heed her advice, and she lingers momentarily, looking hesitant, before nodding and following Bill out of the sitting room. We're alone, which is the first in a while and should probably be a source of relief, but I'm mostly just suspicious.

"Where's Griphook?" I say.

"He said he was going to sleep," Hermione replies. "He said we'll need plenty of rest for - for what we're about to do tomorrow. And, well, he's not - he's not wrong, is he? Maybe we should go to bed, too."

"Yeah, probably," Ron says.

He and Hermione get to their feet, but I remain seated.

"You lot can go ahead, I'm not tired," I say. At their worried looks, I add quickly, "I'll be there soon, promise, just... give me a little while, that's all."

Harry stares at me, before saying, "Yeah, I think I'll stay a while too."

I give him a sideways glance, but say nothing. Ron and Hermione are hesitant, but finally nod, bid us goodnight, and leave the sitting room themselves. I turn to look at Harry.

"You don't have to stay because I'm staying," I say. "Go get some sleep. You'll need it tomorrow."

"So will you."

I shrug. "I've learned to cope without much sleep over the years."

"You should've have to," Harry says.

"I try not to dwell on stuff like that."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Why are you talking to me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like we're strangers. Like we haven't been best mates since we were five."

I blink. "I - I didn't realise I was doing that. I guess it's just... you're going to bring it up. Being captured. I know you've all been wanting to ask, and I'm just trying to avoid it, I suppose."

"You know you can talk to me, right?" Harry says, looking at me earnestly. "I don't have the same experience you do, but I know what it's like, being at their mercy. And I... I saw you." I snap my head up to look at him. "I saw inside You-Know-Who's mind, and I saw him torturing you. I didn't know where you were, or we would've tried to save you, but I saw you. He was putting you through so much pain and you still didn't budge. It was one of the bravest things I'd ever seen."

But I shake my head, holding back a sigh with difficulty. "Everyone keeps acting like that, acting like I was brave, but I wasn't. I always liked to think that I'd be all dignified when I faced You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters, but the truth is, I was petrified of them, Harry. I still am. I'm not brave. I wish I could say I was, but I wasn't. I didn't have any choice but to face them."

The truth in these words makes it hard to remain calm as I tell Harry all of this. It makes it hard to resist to do the painfully easy thing and cry.

"But that's why you were brave, Hazel," he insists. "You were scared and you faced them, anyway. You could have gives us - given  _me_ \- up to them and you didn't. That takes a lot, Hazel. Not everyone could've done that, but you did. And I don't... I don't know how to thank you."

I smile faintly, placing a hand on top of his and squeezing it. "Don't thank me. I'd do it all again if it kept you all safe."

"And I'd do the same," he says. "And I should've - "

But I shake my head, moving my hand to pat him on the shoulder, saying, "Don't, Harry. Let's not do the whole guilt thing, alright? I don't regret my decision."

Harry doesn't look completely reassured, but he nods. For a while, we sit there together in silence, until I finally add, standing up, "We should go to bed. We'll need any rest we can get."

I hold out my hand to help him up. For a moment, he's quiet, staring up at me, before taking my hand, using it to pull himself up to his feet. We part ways when he reaches the door to the room he's sharing with Ron, bidding each other goodnight quietly. I reach the tiniest bedroom, the one I'm sharing with Hermione and Luna.

Luna's definitely asleep, from the sound of her loud snoring. At first, Hermione and I thought she was faking sleep due to how much her snores sounded like the fake ones you hear on television and in films, but we soon learned that that's just how she sounds when she sleeps. It's a little strange and off-putting, not to mention irritating when it's three in the morning and you haven't had a minute of sleep, but it's hard not to find it funny at the same time.

I got to my backpack and pull out the portrait of Sir Phineas (it's weird to think that we now have two portraits of him), before summoning him and quietly speaking to him about our plan. He has no reaction to it except for a raised eyebrow and a declaration that I'm out of my mind, but that's nothing I didn't know. He wishes me good luck, though, which tells me that he still cares. After we're finished talking, I put the portrait back into my bag and slip into my sleeping bag as silently as I can, staring up at the ceiling blankly. It's hard to think of anything but the conversation with Harry I just had or the dangerous mission we're about to attempt. Luna's loud snores aside, the anxiety building up inside of me is making it difficult to sleep.

"Hazel?" Hermione's voice whispers, surprising me. I had assumed she was asleep, too.

"Yeah," I whisper back.

"Were you scared?" she asks. "When you were trapped at the Malfoys', were you scared?"

I'm quiet for a long time, thrown off by the question. Hermione's had questions about my time as a prisoner, that I always knew; but I wasn't entirely sure she'd ever ask them, and certainly hadn't expected it at a time like this.

"Yeah," I say finally. "Yeah, I was scared."

Hermione doesn't say anything for a while, and the room is silent again except for Luna's snoring. I'm about to ask why she even asked at all when she finally speaks.

"Are you scared now?"

After a moment of hesitation, I say, "Yeah, I'm scared now, too."

Again, Hermione says nothing.

"Why do you ask?"

"I wanted to know I wasn't alone," is all she says. "Goodnight. Try to sleep, Hazel."

"Yeah," I say, "you too."

In spite of this, I sleep badly that night, as I do nearly every night. I can't help but think of all the similarities between now and when we had infiltrated the Ministry so long ago. I had felt anxious then, too, but I had also felt a certain determination, almost an excitement. Now, all I can feel is anxious, nagging doubt, unable to shake the feeling that everything would go wrong. And I've be back in Diagon Alley, too, close to Knockturn Alley... I try to tell myself that our plan is a good one, that Griphook knows what we're about to face, that we're well-prepared for the obstacles we're about to face, and yet I still feel uneasy. There's still no denying that much of our plan relies on luck, as all of our plans seem to do.

It's almost a relief when six o'clock arrives and I can slip out of my sleeping bag, dressing silently in the semi-darkness, Hermione doing the same. Hermione and I move together to the landing of the stairs, where Harry and Ron are waiting for us, Griphook by their side.

"Okay, Ron and I will meet you in the garden," Hermione says to Harry, Griphook, and I. "I'll get to work on disguising us while you transform into Bellatrix, Hazel. Here's the vial of Bellatrix's hair," Hermione says, handing it to me, "and here's what's left of the Polyjuice Potion," she adds, handing me a flask. "There's barely anything left, so you might as well drink it all."

I nod, holding the vial and the flask in my hands. Ron and Hermione depart, heading out into the garden. I look at Harry and Griphook, before placing the hair carefully into the flask. The effect causes smoke to billow out of the flask. I look at the flask warily, before saying, "Well, here it goes," and downing what's left of the potion.

The best way to describe it is as a combination of every one of those purposely terrible flavours of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Earwax and live and tripe and bogies and, oddly, the tangy metallic taste of blood. I have to force myself to swallow it down. I think I might be able to hold it down; then, a moment later, I'm rushing to the bathroom and vomiting up the contents of my stomach, retching and heaving.

"Hazel!" Harry half whispers, half shouts, rushing into the room just as I finish vomiting.

I just shake my head, clutching my stomach and getting to my feet, wiping my mouth. I turn to look at him and see that he's looking at me with wide eyes. Immediately, I hurry over to the mirror and find Bellatrix Lestrange staring back at me. Her wide, grey eyes, her haughty yet gaunt facial features, her hands stretched out in front of me, her long, curly hair falling all over my face. Looking at her face - my face, now - all I can think about is all the people she's murdered, tortured, harmed, broken apart into pieces. All I can think about is what she's done to  _me_. And now I'm her; I have her hair and her eyes and her mouth and her hands and I'll be carrying her wand, her wand that she's used to ruin so many lives.

I look at myself - at her - in the mirror, and throw up again.

Harry looks alarmed, but holds my -  _her_ \- hair back as I do, and once I've stopped, asks, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, can you stop with this already?" Griphook demands impatiently. "Time is limited enough as it is."

Harry shoots him an impatient look, but I just say, wiping my mouth, "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Sorry. It's - it's just a bit weird."

Soon, we're heading down to the garden, where we find Ron and Hermione, who have been transformed to the point where I almost don't recognise them, and I suspect the only reason I can recognise them is because I've known them both for so long. Ron's hair is still red, but it's not long and wavy; he had a thick brown beard and moustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and bushy eyebrows. Hermione's hair is now blonde, long, and sleek. Her nose is straighter, her eyes a bright blue, and her chin indented. The idea is that they're given completely different identities and, hopefully, Bellatrix's malevolent aura would be enough to protect them.

"Jesus, Hazel," Ron breathes, looking at me. "This is fucking freaky. I think that's the first time I've looked at you and wanted to kill you really, really bad."

"So, all the other times you only kind of wanted to kill me?" I say, raising my eyebrows.

"Funny."

"How do we look?" Hermione asks, gesturing at herself, then at Ron.

"None of you are really my type, but it'll do," Harry responds. "Shall we go, then?"

We all glance back at Shell Cottage, lying dark and silent under the fading stars, then turned and began to walk toward the point just beyond the boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stopped working and we could Disapparate. Once past the gate, Griphook spoke.

"I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?"

Harry bends down and the goblin clambers onto his back, linking his hands tightly in front of Harry's throat. Hermione pulls out the Invisibility Cloak out of the beaded bag and throws it over them both.

"That's lucky," I say, bending down to inspect Harry's feet. "Everything's covered. Let's go."

We Apparate to Charing Cros Road. Muggles bustle past us wearing the hangdog expressions of the early morning, completely oblivious to the existence of the Leaky Caudron. Oblivious to the war, oblivious to how much danger they were all in, oblivious to everything, it seems.

The bar of the Leaky Cauldron, as I was expecting, is nearly deserted. Tom was polishing glasses behind the bar counter. A couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner take one look at me and shrink back into the corner. I feel offended for a split second, but then remember who I look like right now.

"Madam Lestrange," says Tom, and as I pause, he bows his head subserviently.

"Morning," I say, nodding once, and keep walking; then, immediately, inwardly cringe at myself. I'm Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix Lestrange does not tell people good morning. Glancing back at Tom's surprised expression only confirms I've done the wrong thing.

"Too polite," Harry's disembodied voice tells me, as we pass out of the inn and into the tiny backyard. "You have to treat people like they're scum!"

"Yeah, I realised that a second after I said it," I whisper back. "I'll be more careful."

I draw Bellatrix's wand and tap a brick in the nondescript wall in front of us. At once, the bricks begin to whirl and spin. A hole forms in the middle, growing wider and wider, until an archway finally forms into the narrow cobbled street of Diagon Alley. I take a deep breath, and lead the way forward. It's quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there were hardly any shoppers around, though that likely wasn't just because of the early time. Few people come to Diagon Alley lately, and if they do, they're almost never alone. The exceptions are beggars. Even more ships are boarded up than there were last time I was at Diagon Alley, though there are more shops dedicated to the Dark Arts now.

 _They won't even need Knockturn Alley soon,_ I think.

Harry's face glares down at me from posters plastered on many windows, all of them reading:  _UNDESIRABLE NO. 1._

A number of ragged people sit huddled in doorways. As they did when I was around, they moaned to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting they were really wizards. Normally, I would give them all the money I could, but now I don't even acknowledge them, save for a disdainful glance. They all melt away at the sight of me, pulling their hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as they could. One man, however, with a bloodied bandage over his eye, comes staggering straight towards me.

"My children," he bellows. His voice is cracked and high-pitched, sounding distraught. "Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you know!"

"I - I'm afraid I really don't - " I say, trying to maintain Bellatrix's intimidating aura, but I'm too surprised to be convincing.

The man lunges at me, reaching for my throat. I go to raise my wand, but Ron beats me to it. With a bang and a burst of red light, the man is thrown back several feet, unconscious. Ron stands there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible underneath his beard. Faces appear at the windows on either side of the street, while a little knot of passersby gathered their robes about them and set off at a brisk pace, keen to vacate the scene. This has to be one of the most conspicuous entrances possible for a plan that required so much discreetness, even for us. I'm starting to think it might be better to leave now and think of a better way to go about this, but before it can be brought up and discussed, someone cries out from behind us.

"Why, Madam Lestrange!"

I whirl around and find a tall, thin wizard with a crown of bushy grey hair and a long, sharp nose was striding towards me. I draw myself up to full height and say with indifference, "And what is it that you want?"

He slows to a stop, raising an eyebrow and saying coolly, "I merely sought to greet you. But if my presence is not welcome..."

"It's Travers," Harry hisses in my ear. "Another Death Eater."

Trying to cover up my mistake, I say, "I see. That's no bother at all, Travers, not at all. How are you?"

"Well, I confess myself surprised to see you our and about, Bellatrix."

"Really?" I say, raising my eyebrows. "And why's that?"

"Well," Travers coughed, "I heard the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house after the... ah - escape."

Damn it. If this is true and Bellatrix isn't supposed to be out in public at all... the entire plan could fall apart.

"The Dark Lord is most merciful to those who serve him faithfully," I say, keeping my cool and imitating Bellatrix's contemptuous manner, the way I've seen her do it so many times. "Perhaps your credit with him simply isn't as good as mine, Travers."

Though Travers looks offended, he certainly looks less suspicious, which means I've said the right thing. He looks instead down at the man Ron stunned.

"How did it offend you?"

I shudder inwardly at the use of the word 'it,' but I know I must do the same, so I say coolly, "No matter. It will not do it again."

"Some of these wandless can be troublesome," says Travers. "When they do nothing but beg I have no objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case to the Ministry last week. 'I'm a witch, sir, I'm a witch, let me prove it to you!'" he says in a squeaky impersonation. "As if I was going to give her my wand - but whose wand," he says curiously, "are you using at the moment? I heard your wand was - "

"I'm using my own wand," I say coldly, holding up Bellatrix's wand. "I don't know who you've been speaking to, Travers, but you're sadly misinformed. I suggest you stop taking so much stock in  _gossip_."

Travers looks taken aback by the response, and looks instead to Ron and Hermione.

"Who are your friends? I don't recognise them."

"This is Dragomir Despard and Lavinia Petran," I say, gesturing to Ron, then Hermione. We decided fictional foreigners were the best way to go in terms of covers for Ron and Hermione. "They speak very little English, but they are in sympathy with the Dark Lord's aims. They came here from Transylvania to see our new regime."

"Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir, Lavinia?"

"'Ow you," says Ron, holding out a hand.

"Wonderful to meet you," Hermione says, assuming the same accent as Ron.

Travers shakes Ron's hands with two fingers as though frightened of dirtying himself. He's more welcoming with Hermione, who certainly has a more clean cut look to her than Ron's rugged appearance, but Travers still seems reserved as he shakes her hand.

"So what brings you and your - ah -  _sympathetic_ friends to Diagon Alley," Travers asks, turning back to me.

"I need to visit Gringotts," I reply.

"Alas, I also," says Travers. "Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, and yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends."

I almost wince at the comment. Griphook, at the very least, certainly will not like that, and I don't think I can blame him.

"Shall we?" Travers continues, gesturing forward.

I have no choice but to fall into step beside him down the crooked, cobbled street towards where the snowy-white building of Gringotts towers over the tiny shops. Ron and Hermione fall into place a little behind us, and I imagine Harry and Griphook are following along somewhere nearby, too. A watchful Death Eater is the last thing we needed, and now Ron, Hermione, and I will have to be even more careful with our words, and Harry won't be able to communicate with us at all. All too soon we arrive at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze doors. As Griphook has already warned us, the liveried goblins who usually flank the entrance have been replaced by two wizards carrying long, thin, golden rods.

"Ah, Probity Probes," Travers sighs theatrically. "So crude - but so effective!"

And he sets off up the steps, nodding let and right to the wizards, who raise the golden rods and passes them up and down his body. The Probes detect spells of concealment and hidden magical objects. Harry is to Confund them so that I can distract the wizards from using the Probes on Ron, Hermione, and I and detecting that we've used magic to alter our appearance. If this doesn't work, we'll be doomed before we can even get through the doors.

When each of the two wizards give a little start, their eyes glazing over, I refrain from sighing in relief, knowing Harry has done his job. It goes unnoticed by Travers, who's looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall. I stride up the steps, my - Bellatrix's - hair rippling behind me as I go.

"One moment," says one of the guards, raising the Probe.

"But you've just done that!" I say, mimicking Bellatrix's commanding, arrogant voice. "Why are you wasting our time?"

Travers turns around, raising his eyebrows. The guard is confused, to say the least. He stares at the thin golden Prove, then at his partner, who says in a dazed voice. "Yeah, you've just checked them, Marius."

"Now that you've worked that out," I say impatiently, and sweet forward without any further ado, Ron and Hermione trailing behind me. I can only assume that Harry and Griphook are following behind silently, still invisible, but I'm still worried; anything could have happened with them and I have no way of knowing. I can see the wizards scratching their heads out of the corner of my eyes, but I know I can't look back. Two goblins stand before the inner doors, which are made of silver and carry the warning of dire retribution to any potential thieves. I remember with a sharp pang being eleven years old, standing here for the first time with Professor McGonagall, who told me that only a madman would try to steal from here.

 _Maybe a group of madmen'll do the trick_ , I think as I keep walking, moving into the vast marble hall of the bank with the others. The long counter is manned by goblins sitting on high stools and serving the first customers of the day. Hermione, Ron, Travers, and I head towards an old goblin who's examining a thick old coin through an eyeglass. I allow Travers to step forward on the pretext of explaining the features of the hall to Ron and Hermione. The goblin tosses aside the coin he was examining, says to no one in particular, "Leprechaun," and then greets Travers, who passes over a tiny golden key, which is examined and given back to him. I step forward.

"Madam Lestrange!" the goblin says, evidently surprised to see me. "Dear me! How - how may I help you today?"

"I wish to enter my vault," I reply, making my voice border on impatience, as though it should be very obvious what I want and this goblin should already be acting on my desires.

The old goblin seems to recoil at my words. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Travers hanging back and watching, and several other goblins have looked up from their work to watch me.

"You have... identification?" the goblin asks.

"Identification?" I repeat. Griphook said nothing of needing identification. I have no idea what that's even supposed to mean. Still, I raise an eyebrow, making myself seem impatient and inconvenienced, rather than slightly terrified, the way I actually am. "I have never been asked for identification before. You didn't ask my companion - " I cock my head slightly in the direction of Travers - "for identification. And why should we be, wizards of our stature?"

"Standard procedure nowadays, madam," the goblin replies, though he doesn't explain why Travers didn't need any identification. They must be onto us. Somehow, they've been warned of an imposter. "Your wand will do."

Immediately, I know that we are doomed for two reasons. One, because Hermione has my actual wand, meaning that if I give it to them, I'll be giving them my only way of defending myself - except for the Cross of Elements in my sock, that is. Two, because the wand had been stolen from the real Bellatrix Lestrange back at Malfoy Manor, and from the looks of it, the goblins know it. Handing them the wand is turning us all in. And yet I have no option, unless I want to start a duel with everybody in Gringotts bank in broad daylight, which is far from favourable, so I hand the goblin the wand silently.

Just as I do, a funny look crosses the goblin's face, as though wiped blank of any emotion. I frown slightly as he examines it and says, "Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!"

I blink. I don't understand what's happening, but I recognise the way out. "Yes. Yes, of course I have."

"A new wand?" Travers repeats, approaching the counter. I note the other goblins still watching us. "But how could you have had it done, which wandmaker did you use?" But then Travers gets that same blank look the goblin has now, saying, "Oh, yes, I see. Yes, very handsome. And is it working well? I always find wands require a little breaking in, don't you?"

I'm still utterly bewildered, but try to take the turn of events in stride, raising my chin and saying, "It's working well enough, thank you, Travers."

The old goblin behind the counter claps his hands and a younger goblin approaches.

"I shall need the Clankers," says the older goblins, and the younger goblin dashes away and returns with a leather bag full of what seems to be jangling metal, which he hands to the older goblin. "Good, good! If you will follow me, Madam Lestrange," the older goblin continues, hopping off his stool and vanishing from sight. "I shall take you to your vault."

He appears around the end of the counter, jogging happily towards them, the contents of the leather bag still jingling. Travers is now standing quite still with his mouth hanging open. Ron is drawing more attention to this phenomenon by staring at Travers with evident confusion.

"Wait - Bogrod!"

Another goblin comes scurrying around the counter.

"We have instructions," the goblin says, with a bow to me. "Forgive me, Madam, but there have been special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange."

He whispers urgently in Bogrod's ear as I try not to tense up, but the goblin simply shakes him off.

"I am aware of the instructions, Madam Lestrange wishes to enter her vault... very old family... old client... this way, please."

And, still clanking, he hurries towards one of the many doors leading off the hall. I'm beginning to think that Travers, who's rotted to his spot with a still vacant expression, is going to simply stay there aimlessly, when he begins to follow meekly in our wake. We reach the door and pass into the rough stone passageway behind, which is lit with flaming torches.

"We're in trouble, they suspect," Harry's voice comes out of nowhere as the door slams shut behind us, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jumps down from his shoulders. I'm relieved to see that Harry and Griphook have managed to follow us all the way through in one piece, but I'm set on edge by how reckless it is to reveal himself  _here_ , without a disguise, in front of others. However, neither Bogrod or Travers shows the slightest surprise by the sudden appearance of Harry Potter. "They're Imperiused," Harry explains, in response to the confused queries of Ron, Hermione, and I about Travers and Bogrod. It explains the odd change in behaviour, though it unsettles me that we've resorted to using the spells that we can our enemies corrupt for using. "I don't think I did it strong enough, I don't know..."

"What do we do now?" Ron asks. "Get out while we can?"

"If we can," Hermione says, looking back towards the door into the main hall, beyond which we can only guess what is happening.

"We've got this far, I saw we go on," Harry says.

"Good!" Griphook says, pleased. "So, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will be no room for the wizard."

Harry points his wand at Travers and says, "Imperio!"

The wizard turns and sets off at a fast pace along the dark track.

"What are you making him do?" I say, trying to keep the apprehension out of my voice.

"Hide," Harry replies, pointing his wand at Bogrod, who whistles to summon a cart that comes trundling on the tracks towards us out of the darkness. I can hear shouting from the main hall, though I could be imagining it, as we all clamber onto it, Bogrod in front of Griphook, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all cram together in the back.

With a jerk, the cart moves, gathering speed rapidly. We hurry past Travers, who's wriggling into a crack in the wall, then the cart begins twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward all the time. I can't hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks or the whistling of the wind. My - Bellatrix's - hair flies behind me as we swerve around stalactites, flying even deeper into the earth, but I keep glancing back. The more I think about it, the more I think we might as well be leaving behind gigantic footprints. It feels foolish, careless, even, to have used Bellatrix as my disguise, to have used Bellatrix's wand, when the Death Eaters know who has it now...

We're deeper into Gringotts than I've ever been. We take a hairpin bend at top speed and see ahead of us, without a second to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track.

"No!" I can just hear Griphook yelling, but there's no braking, and we zoom through it.

Water fills my eyes and my mouth, making it impossible to see or breathe. Then, with an awful lurch, the cart flips over and we're all thrown out of it. I can hear the cart smash to pieces against the passage wall, hear Hermione shriek something that sounds like an incantation, feel myself glide down to the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly on the rocky passage floor.

"C-Cushioning Charm," Hermione splutters as we all scramble to our feet.

I rub my eyes, coughing a little, and open them again to find Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Griphook all staring at me in horror. At first, I don't understand, until I realise with an unpleasant jolt that Ron and Hermione look like themselves again; Ron is freckled and beardless again, and Hermione is brown-eyed and bushy-haired again. I look down and realise that my sopping wet robes are overlarge on me. I bring my hand up to my face, already knowing and dreading what I would find, and feel my own features on my face, my own nose, my own hair, my own ears. Ron and Hermione realise it the same time I do, reaching up and feeling their own faces in horror.

"The Thief's Downfall!" Griphook says, clambering to his feet and looking back at the deluge on the torrent on the tracks, which I realise now had been more than just water. "It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment! They know there are impostors in Gringotts, they have set off the defences against us!"

I resist the urge to point out that it would have been awfully helpful if Griphook had told us about these defences ahead of time, instead looking to Hermione as she checks that her beaded bag is still there. Harry's hand dives to the pocket of his jacket, clearly checking if he still has his Invisibility Cloak. I bend down to retrieve the Cross of Elements from my sock, slipping it on my finger and testing it our hurriedly, relieved to find it's still fully functioning. I decide to leave it on my finger; if I can't disguise myself as Bellatrix anymore, then I have noting to lose by using it. I look and see Bogrod shaking his head in bewilderment; the Thief's Downfall clearly washed away the effects of the Imperius Curse.

"We need him," says Griphook, "we cannot enter the vault without a Gringotts goblin. And we need the clankers!"

" _Imperio!_ " Harry says again, and Bogrod submits once again to Harry's will, his befuddled expression changing to one of polite indifference, as Ron hurries to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

"Harry, I think I can hear people coming!" Hermione says, and points my wand at the waterfall and cries, " _Protego!_ "

We can see the Shield Charm break the flow of the enchanted water as it flows up the passageway.

"Good thinking," Harry says, nodding once. "Lead the way, Griphook!"

"How are we going to get out again?" Ron asks, saying the question I've been thinking ever since we were ejected from the cart, as we hurry on foot into the darkness after the goblin, Bogrod panting in our wake like an old dog.

"Let's worry about that when we have to," Harry replies, as I note that I can hear something clanking and moving around nearby. "Griphook, how much farther?"

"Not far, Harry Potter, not far..."

And we turn a corner and see something that I had been expecting, but still brings all of us to a halt.

A gigantic dragon is tethered to the ground in front of us, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the bank. The dragon's scales have turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground, and its eyes are a milky pink. Both rear legs bear heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would likely fill the whole chamber if it were to spread them, and when it turns its ugly head towards us, it roars so ferociously the rock trembles, opens its mouth, and spits a jet of fire that I only just manage to put out by conjuring a great wave of water to counter it.

"Thanks for that, Hazel," Ron says, swallowing.

"Yeah, what are friends for?" I say meekly. "Besides, I like not being ashes."

"It is partially blind," Griphook says, nodding at the dragon, "but more savage for it. However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. Give them to me." Ron passes the bag to Griphook, who pulls out a number of small metal instruments that when shaken make a long ringing noise similar to miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook hands one out to each of us, Bogrod accepting his meekly.

"You know what to do," Griphook tells Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I. "It will expect pain when it hears the noise. It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm upon the door of the vault."

Hermione and I exchange disgusted looks, but we both know we have no choice. We advance around the corner, shaking the Clankers, and the noise echoes off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the inside of my skull seems to vibrate. The dragon lets out another hoarse roar, then retreats. I can see it trembling, and as we draw nearer and see the scars made by vicious slashes across its face, see that it's been taught to fear hot swords when it hears the sound of the Clankers.

"Make him press his hand to the door!" Griphook tells Harry, who turns his wand on Bogrod again.

The old goblin obeys, pressing his palm to the wood, and the door seems to melt away to reveal a cave-like opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armour, the skins of strange creatures - some with long spines, others with drooping wings - potions in jewelled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown.

"Search, fast!" Harry says as we all hurry inside the vault.

Harry has already given us a description of Hufflepuff's Cup, but if it's the other, unknown Horcrux that's hidden in here, then none of us have any idea where to look. I barely have time to glance around, however, when there's a muffled clunk from behind us. The door of the vault has reappeared, sealing us inside the vault and plunging us in total darkness.

"No matter, Bogrod will be able to release us!" Griphook says as Ron gives a shout of surprise. "Light your wands, can't you? And hurry, we have little time!"

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all light our wands, shining around the vault, examining the piles of objects surrounding us. The light of my wand falls upon glittering jewels. I find the fake sword of Gryffindor lying on a high shelf among a jumble of chains.

"Harry, could this be - argh!"

Hermione screams in pain, and I whirl around just in time to see a jewelled goblet tumbling from her grip. As it falls, however, it becomes a shower of goblets, so that a second later, with a great clatter, the floor is covered in identical cups rolling in every direction, the original impossible to make out among them.

"It burned me!" Hermione moans, sucking on her blistered fingers.

"They have added Germino and Flagrante Curses!" says Griphook. "Everything you touch will burn and multiply, but the copies are worthless - and if you continue to touch the treasure, you will be crushed to death by the weight of the expanding gold!"

"Okay, don't touch anything!" Harry says desperately, but even as he says it, Ron accidentally nudges one of the fallen goblets with his foot, and twenty more copies of the goblet explode into existence as Ron hops around on one foot, part of his show burned away by the contact with the hot metal.

"Stand still, don't move!" Hermione says, clutching onto Ron's arm.

"Just look around!" Harry says. "Remember, the cup's small and gold, it's got a badger engraved on it, two handles - otherwise, if you spot Ravenclaw's symbol anywhere, the eagle - "

We direct our wands into every nook and cranny, turning cautiously on the spot. It proves to be impossible to not brush up against anything. Harry sends a cascade of fake Galleons onto the ground where they join real Galleons, and now there's scarcely room to place our feet, and the glowing gold blazes with heat, so that the vault begins to feel like a furnace. My wand passes over piles of precious gems and coins on the ground, before turning slowly and cautiously on the spot, trying to spot the golden cup.

"It's there, it's up there!" Harry cries, making my heart leap and my feet whirl around, pointing my lit wand where Harry's indicating, one of the shelves near the ceiling. Ron and Hermione do the same, pointing the wand at the cup, which glitters under the four-way spotlight, the cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, which centuries later would be stolen by Tom Riddle.

"And how the hell are we going to get up there without touching anything?" Ron demands.

"Accio Cup!" cries Hermione, who, in her desperation, has evidently what Griphook had told us during our planning sessions.

"No use, no use!" growls the goblin.

"Then what do we do?" Harry demands, glaring at Griphook. "If you want the sword, Griphook, you'll have to help more than just - wait a minute! Can I touch stuff with the sword? Hermione, give it here!"

Hermione fumbles inside her robes, draws out her beaded bag, rummages through it for a few seconds, before pulling out the shining sword. Harry seizes it by the ruby hilt and touches the tip of the blade to a silver flagon nearby. It does not multiply.

"If I can just poke it through a handle - but how am I going to get up there?"

The shelf on which the cup is resting is out of reach of all of us, even Ron, who's the tallest. The heat from the enchanted rises in waves, so that sweat runs down my face as I try to think of a way to retrieve the cup. It doesn't help when I hear the dragon roar on the other side of the door, and the sound of clanking outside grows louder and louder. It hits me that we're truly trapped now. There's no way out except for the door, on the other side of which is a blind, temperamental, tortured dragon and a horde of approaching goblins. The terror on Harry, Ron, and Hermione's faces only makes this clearer.

"We've got to get up there somehow - " Harry begins, just as an idea forms in my mind.

"I think I can reach it," I say suddenly.

"Hazel, you're the shortest one here - " Ron begins.

"No, not like that," I snap. "I - I can use the power I have with wind to sort of - well, not fly exactly, just - float? I don't know what to call it, but I can manipulate the wind so that I can get in the air, and it looks like flying, but - "

"Can you get up there?" Harry cuts across me.

"Well," I think about it for a moment. I've only done it once, while on a mission with the rest of the Insurrectionary Squad, and I had barely managed it, but I  _did_ do it. Besides, I have to succeed now. "Yes. Yes, I can get up there."

Ron hands the sword to my outstretched hand. I look down at the Cross of Elements, waiting until the ball has turned into one of swirling wind, before focusing on it carefully. I close my eyes and spread my hands on either side of me, concentrating on using my power with wind to propel myself upwards. As I feel that familiar tug in my stomach, I open my eyes just as I begin rising into the air, clutching onto the sword tightly.

I rise slowly, raising the sword in preparation to hook it through the handle of the cup. The only problem is that I've never worked on control, and I end up hitting a suit of armour, replicas bursting out of it like white-hot bodies, filling the cramped space. I cry out a strangled apology as, with screams of pain, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Griphook, and Bogrod are knocked aside into other objects, which also begin to replicate. Half-buried in a rising tide of red-hot treasure, they struggle and yell as I thrust the sword through the handle of Hufflepuff's Cup, hooking it onto the blade.

" _Impervius!_ " Hermione screeches in an attempt to protect herself, Harry, Ron, and the goblins from the burning metal.

Then the worst scream yet makes me look down. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are waist deep in treasure, struggling to keep Bogrod from slipping beneath the rising tide, but Griphook has sunk out of sight; nothing but the tips of a few long fingers are still in view. Panicking, I try to use blasts of wind to blast the multiplying treasures out of the way to the sides of the vault, to no avail; too many are materialising at once. I lower myself enough to seize Griphook's fingers and pull. The blistered goblin appears by degrees, howling. The final tug to get him out of the piles of treasure knocks me off balance, my back slamming against the rough, uneven wall of the vault, the sword flying to the ground as I crash to the ground, searing pain immediately overwhelming me as I touch countless objects.

"Get it!" I cry out vaguely, fighting the pain of the hot metal on my skin, as Griphook clambers onto my shoulders, determined to avoid the swelling mass of red-hot objects. "Where's the sword? It had the cup on it!

The clanking on the other side is becoming deafening - it's too late - 

"There!"

It's Griphook who sees it and Griphook who lunges for it, and in that instant, it becomes clear that the goblin never expected us to keep our word. One hand holding tightly to a fistful of my hair to make sure that he does not fall into the heaving sea of burning gold, Griphook seizes the hilt of the sword and swings it high out of Harry's reach. The tiny golden cup, skewered by the handle on the sword's blade is flung into the air. The goblin still on my shoulders, I dive and catch it, and though it scalds my flesh I don't relinquish it, even while countless Hufflepuff Cups burst from my fist, raining down upon me as the entrance of the vault opens again and I find myself sliding uncontrollably on an expanding avalanche of fiery gold and silver that bears myself, Harry, Ron, and Hermione into the outer chamber.

Hardly aware of the pain from the burns covering my body, and still borne along the swell of replicating treasure, I shove the Cup into the pocket of my robes and reach up to retrieve the sword, but Griphook is gone. Sliding from my shoulders the moment he could, he had sprinted for cover among the surrounding goblins, brandishing the sword and crying, "Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!" He vanished into the midst of the advancing crowd, all of whom are holding daggers and accept him without questions.

Slipping on the hot metal, struggling to my feet and tripping over my now overlong robes, I curse Griphook out loud (dimly aware of the hypocrisy) and realise that the only way out is through.

Harry seems to realise the same thing, calling out, " _Stupefy!_ " at the same time I do. Ron and Hermione join in. Jets of red light flies into the crowd of goblins, and some topple over, but others advance, and I can see several wizard guards running around the corner.

The tethered dragon lets out a roar, and a gush of flame flies over the goblins. The wizards flee, doubled-up, back the way they had come. Glad for one less thing to worry about, I summon chunks of rock from the ground below, sending them flying and hitting the goblins, which knocks them off their feet and sets them flying. Just as I do, Harry points his wand at the thick cuffs chaining the dragon to the floor and yells, " _Relashio!_ "

The cuffs break open with loud bangs.

I'm about to ask what he's playing at when he yells, "This way!" and, still shooting Stunning Spells at the advancing goblins, sprints towards the blind dragon.

"Harry - Harry - what are you doing?" Hermione cries, but I think I know. It's utterly mad - perhaps one of the most mad things we've ever done - and yet it might be the only way out.

"Get up, climb up, come on - "

The dragon does not seem to realise that it has been freed. Harry's foot finds the crook of its hind leg and he pulls himself up onto his back. The scales are hard as steel, and the dragon doesn't even seem to feel him. He stretches out an arm, and I take it, hoisting myself up. Hermione follows, Ron climbs on behind us, and a second later the dragon becomes aware that it's been untethered.

With a roar it rears. I did in my knees, clutching as tightly as I can to the jagged scales as the wings open, knocking the shrieking goblins aside like they're nothing, and it soars into the air. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I, flat on its back, scrape against the ceiling as it dives towards the passage opening, while the pursuing goblins hurl daggers that glance off its flanks.

"We'll never get out, it's too big!" Hermione screams, but the dragon opens its mouth and belches flame again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceiling cracked and crumbled. By sheer force, the dragon claws and fights its way through. I close my eyes against the heat and the dust. Deafened by the crash of rock and the dragon's roars, I can only cling to its back, expecting to be thrown off at any moment; then I hear Hermione yelling, " _Defodio!_ "

She's helping the dragon enlarge the passageway, carving out the ceiling as it struggles upward towards fresher air, away from the shrieking and clanking goblins. Harry, Ron, and I mimic her, blasting the ceiling apart with more gouging spells, until I get an idea.

"Wait!" I say, and spread my hands again cautiously, squeezing my eyes shut and concentrating. A moment later, I had blasted enough of the ceiling out of the way that the dragon could fit through with all of us on its back.

We pass an underground lake, and the great crawling, snarling beast seems to sense freedom and space ahead of it. Behind us the passage is full of the dragon's thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking of the goblins seems to be growing more muffled, while ahead, the coast is clear - 

And then, at last, we've made our way out of the passage and into the marble hallway. Goblins and wizards alike shriek and run for cover, and finally the dragon has enough room to stretch its wings. Turning its horned head towards the cool outside air it could smell beyond the entrance, it takes off, and with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I still clutching to its back, it forced its way through the metal doors, leaving them buckled and hanging from their hinged, as it staggered into Diagon Alley and launches itself into the sky.


	38. Aberforth Dumbledore

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Aberforth Dumbledore**

 

The thing about riding a dragon is that there's no way of steering it. The dragon can't see where it's going - how it's even gone this far without crashing into something is a mystery to me - and I know that if it turns sharply or rolls around in midair, we'll have no way to cling onto its broad back. Regardless, as we climb higher and higher, London unfurling below us like a green-and-grey map, I can't help but feel overwhelming gratitude for an escape that, by all means, should have been impossible. Crouching low over the beast's neck, I cling to the metallic scales, and the cool breeze soothes my burned and blistered skin, the dragon's wings beating the air like the sails of a windmill. I keep an eye out for Harry, Ron, and Hermione as best as I can, ensuring they haven't lost their grip and aren't falling to their deaths. Harry seems to be keeping his cool, but Ron, whether from fear or delight, I can't tell, keeps swearing at the top of his lungs, and Hermione appears to be sobbing.

After five minutes or so, I lose some of my immediate dread that the dragon will throw us off, because, for now, its intent seems to be to get as far away from its underground prison as it can. The question of how and when we'll be able to dismount remains rather frightening. I have no idea how long dragons can fly without landing, now how this dragon that can hardly see will be able to locate a good place to land. I glance around constantly, squinting around against the rapid wind, and just focus on hanging on.

How long will it be before Voldemort knows that we've broken into the Lestranges' vault? How soon would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? How quickly would they realise what we've taken? What will happen when they discover that the golden cup is missing? Voldemort would then know that we're hunting Horcruxes. The thought makes my stomach twist unpleasantly.

The dragon seems to crave cooler and fresher air. It climbs steadily until we're flying through wisps of chilly cloud and I can no longer make out the little coloured dots that are cars pouring in and out of London. On and on we fly, over countryside parcelled out in patches of green and brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

"What do you reckon it's looking for?" Ron yells as we fly farther and farther north.

"No idea," Harry bellows in response.

"I don't think it's looking for anything," I yell back. "It just wants to get  _away_. Can you blame it?"

My hands are numb with cold, but I don't dare try to shift my grip. I'm beginning to wonder what would happen if we see the coast sail beneath us, if the dragon heads for open sea. Unable to distract myself from how hungry and thirsty, not to mention cold and numb, I feel, I begin to wonder when the last time the dragon itself had eaten. Surely it'll need some sort of sustenance before long? And what exactly would happen if, when that point comes, it realises that it has four highly edible humans sitting on its back?

The sun slips lower in the sky, which is turning indigo. Still, the dragon flies, cities and towns gliding out of sight beneath us, its enormous shadow sliding over the earth like a giant dark cloud. Every part of my body aches with the effort of holding onto the dragon's back.

"Is it my imagination," shouts Ron after a considerable silent stretch, "or are we losing height?"

It isn't Ron's imagination. I look down and see deep green mountains and lakes, coppery in the sunset. The landscape seems to grow larger and more detailed as I squint over the side of the dragon, and I wonder if it had sense the presence of fresh water by the flashes of reflected sunlight. Lower and lower the dragon flies, in great spiralling circles, honing in, it seems, upon one of the smaller lakes.

"I saw we jump when it gets low enough!" Harry calls to us. "Straight into the water before it realises we're here!"

We all agree, Hermione a little faintly. I can see the dragon's wide yellow underbelly rippling in the surface of the water.

"NOW!"

I slither over the side of the dragon and plummet feet-first towards the surface of the lake. The drop is greater than I had anticipated and I hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a freezing green, reed-filled world. I kick towards the surface and emerge, panting, to see Harry already above the surface and enormous ripples emanating in circles from the places where Ron and Hermione had fallen. The dragon doesn't seem to have noticed anything; it's already fifty feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione emerge, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of the lake, the dragon flies on, its wings beating hard, and lands at last on a distant bank.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I head for the opposite shore. The lake does not seem to be very deep; soon it's more of a matter of fighting our way through reeds and mud than swimming, and at last we flop, sodden, panting, and exhausted, onto slippery grass. We all collapse, coughing and shuddering. I could have happily laid there and slept, but instead, I stagger to my feet, draw out my - Bellatrix's - wand, and begin to cast the usual protective spells around us.

When I'm finished, I join the others. It's the first time I've seen them properly since escaping from the vault. They all have angry red burns all over their faces and arms, and their faces and arms, and their clothing is singed away in places. I'm not in much of a better state. They wince as they dab Essence of Dittany onto their many injuries. Hermione hands me the bottle, which I take gratefully, then pulls out four bottles of pumpkin juice that she brought from Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of us. We change, then gulp down the juice.

"Well, on the upside," Ron says finally, watching the skin on his hands regrow, "we got the Horcrux. On the downside - "

" - no sword," Harry says through gritted teeth, as I drip Dittany through the singed hole of my jeans onto the angry burn beneath.

"No sword," Ron repeats. "That double-crossing little scab..."

"I'm sorry, you lot," I say, wincing in pain as I finish up using the Dittany and hand the bottle to Hermione. "If I hadn't lost balance while I was in the air, I would've never dropped the sword, he would've never gotten his hands on it... I should've never helped him out in the first place..."

"Well, don't say that! If you hadn't helped him out, he would've died!" says a shocked Hermione, which, of course, is true.

"Look, never mind apologising," Harry says. "You couldn't have done anything to stop it. You did the right thing. We wouldn't have even gotten our hands on the cup without you."

I just nod, giving him a tight smile, and pull the Horcrux from the pocket of the robes I had just taken off. I set it down on the grass in front of us. Glinting in the sun, it draws our eyes to it as we swig our bottles of pumpkin juice.

"At least we can't wear it this time, that'd look a bit weird hanging around our necks," Ron says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Hermione looks across the lake to the far bank where the dragon is still drinking.

"What'll happen to it, do you think?" she asks. "Will it be alright?"

"You sound like Hagrid," says Ron. "It's a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It's us we need to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know how to break this to you," Ron says, "but I think they might have noticed we broke into Gringotts."

All four of us start to laugh, and once we start, it's difficult to stop. My ribs ache, I feel lightheaded with hunger, but I lay back on the grass beneath the reddening sky and laugh until my throat feels raw.

"What are we going to do, though?" Hermione says finally, hiccuping herself back into seriousness. "He'll know, won't he? You-Know-Who will know we know about his Horcruxes!"

"Maybe they'll be too scared to tell him?" Ron says hopefully. "Maybe they'll cover it up!"

"You know good and well that won't happen, Ron," I say, though not unkindly. "Even if they do try to hide that there's been a break-in, we bloody destroyed that bank - or, at least, the dragon did. There's no way they won't find out, and then it'll get out that the Lestranges' vault was robbed, and even if it doesn't, Vol - shit, sorry -  _I'm sorry!_ \- old habits die hard, okay? -  _You-Know-Who_ will torture it out of them, and then he'll know."

"Well, excuse me for being optimistic - " Ron begins, getting over his minor heart attack at my near slip-up.

"Harry?" Hermione says, cutting across him. Ron and I look around to see that Harry has his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, clutching onto his forehead. "Harry!"

Harry doesn't respond; he doesn't seem to hear her at all. I reach out to him, but just as I do, he slumps over onto the ground. Now severely alarmed, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange looks, before gathering around Harry hurriedly. I try to shake him awake, calling his name out desperately, but he doesn't respond at all.

"He's seeing into his mind again," Ron says, wide-eyed and paling. "Into You-Know-Who's mind."

"What do we do?" Hermione asks desperately.

I just shake my head, as clueless as she is. I can't pull him out of his mind if I can't reach him at all. Harry begins muttering under his breath, but it's low, impossible to make out. Soon, however, his eyes are flying open and I know he's back with us again. He struggles up, shivering, and looking around at the cup lying on the grass, at the lake, deep blue shot with gold in the falling sun.

"He knows," he says in a low voice. "He knows and he's going to check where the others are, and the last one," he's suddenly on his feet, "is at Hogwarts. I knew it. I  _knew_ it."

"What?"

Ron, Hermione, and I know immediately that he's talking about Voldemort and his Horcruxes. Ron is gaping at Harry; Hermione and I sit up, looking worried.

"But what did you see? How did you know?"

"I saw him find out about the cup, I - I was in his head, he's - he's seriously angry - he killed a goblin and even other Death Eaters when he found out, and he's scared, too, he can't understand how we knew, and now he's going to check the others are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is safest, because Snape's there, because it'll be so hard not to be seen getting in. I think he'll check that one last, but he could still be there within hours - "

"Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?" asks Ron, as he, Hermione, and I all scramble to our feet, too.

"No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he didn't think about where exactly it is - "

"Wait, wait!" Hermione cries, as Ron grabs the Horcrux and Harry pulls out the Invisibility Cloak again. "We can't just go, we haven't got a plan, we need to - "

"We need to get going," Harry says firmly, and though I'd been hoping to sleep, looking forward to getting into that new tent, I know he's right. "Can you imagine what he's going to do once he realises the ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn't safe enough?"

"Besides, Hermione, it's not like any of our plans have ever actually worked," I say, gesturing around as though to show how our last plan worked out for us. "We plan, we get there, all hell breaks loose. Might as well skip ahead and get right to it."

"But how are we going to get in?"

"We'll go to Hogsmeade," I say, "and work something out once we see what the protection around the school's like. They're bound to have sealed off some of the secret passageways to the school - at the very least, the one in the Shrieking Shack - but there are some even Filch didn't know about, we might be able to try one of those."

"Get under the Cloak, you lot, I want to stick together this time."

"But we don't really fit - " Hermione points out.

"It'll be dark, no one's going to notice our feet."

The flapping of enormous wings echo across the black water. The dragon has drank its fill and risen into the air. We pause in our preparations to watch it climb higher and higher, now black against the rapidly darkening sky, until it vanished over a nearby mountain. Then, Hermione moves to stand between Ron and I under the Cloak, Hermione and I swap wands quickly (I'm privately relieved to have my own wand back), Harry pulls the Cloak down as far as it can go, and together we turn on the spot into the crushing darkness.

My feet touch the road. I can see the achingly familiar Hogsmeade High Street ahead; dark shop fronts, and the mist line of black mountains beyond the village and the curve in the road that leads off towards Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows of the Three Broomsticks. And suddenly, even as I relax my grip on Hermione and Harry's arms, it happens.

The air is rent with a horrible, high-pitched scream. It tears at every nerve in my body, and the realisation hits me like a load of bricks. Our appearance has caused it. Hogsmeade has a curfew, too, just like Diagon Alley. And this is what happens when you break it.

"Damn it," I whisper. "Damn it, damn it, damn it! We broke curfew, that's why this is happening."

"Curfew? What curfew?" Hermione demands.

"There's a curfew now - there's one at Diagon Alley, too - "

"And why didn't you warn us about this?" Ron says indignantly.

"I didn't realise there was one at Hogsmeade, too, I only knew about Diagon Alley - besides, I didn't know  _this_ would happen when you broke it!"

"And why not?"

"Because no one was ever mental enough to try and break it!" I hiss at Ron. "I'm a  _fugitive_ , Ron, even I wouldn't be that stupid!"

"Never mind that, we've got a big problem!" Harry says.

He's right. The door of the Three Broomsticks has burst open and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters dash into the streets, their wands aloft. Hermione seizes Ron's wrist as he raises his wand. There are too many of them to run. Even attempting it would give away their position. One of the Death Eaters raises his wand, and the scream finally stops, still echoing around the distant mountains.

" _Accio_ Cloak!" roars one of the Death Eaters.

Harry and I both instinctively reach for the folds of the Cloak, but it makes no attempt to escape, to my intense relief. The Summoning Charm had not worked on it.

"Not under your wrapper, then, Potter?" yells the Death Eaters who had tried the Charm, who then turns to his fellows. "Spread out. He's here."

Six of the Death Eaters run towards us. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I back as quickly as possible down the nearest side street, and the Death Eaters miss us by inches. We wait in the darkness, listening to the footsteps running up and down, beams of light flying along the street from the Death Eaters' searching wands.

"Let's just leave!" Hermione whispers. "Disapparate now!"

"Great idea," says Ron.

Before Harry and I can say anything, a Death Eater shouts, "We know you're here, Potter, and there's no getting away. We'll find you!"

"They were ready for us," Harry whispers. "They set up that spell to tell them we'd come. I reckon they've done something to keep us here, trap us - "

"What about Dementors?" calls another Death Eater. "Let 'em have free rein, they'd find him quick enough!"

"The Dark Lord wants Potter dead by no hands but his - "

"'An Dementors won't kill him! The Dark Lord wants Potter's life, not his soul. He'll be easier to kill if he's been Kissed first!"

There are noises of agreement, and I'm filled with dread. To repel Dementors, we'll have to produce Patronuses which will give us away immediately.

"We're going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!" Hermione says desperately.

"Even I'm thinking it might be worth a shot," I interject.

Even as I say it, I feel the unnatural cold spread over the street. Light is sucked from the environment right up to the stars, which vanish. In the pitch blackness, I can feel Hermione take hold of my arm, and I grab onto Harry's. Together, we turn on the spot.

The air through which we need to move seems to have become solid. We can't Disapparate; it seems the Death Eaters have cast their charms well. The cold is biting deeper and deeper into my flesh. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I retreat down the side street, groping their way along the wall and trying not to make a sound. Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly, comes the Dementors, ten or more of them, visible because they're made of a denser darkness than their surroundings, with their black cloaks and their scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in their vicinity? I'm convinced of it, as they seem to be coming more quickly now, taking those awful, dragging, rattling breaths that I hate so much, tasting the despair in the air, closing in.

Harry raises his wand, but I stop him, clutching onto his arm and whispering, "Wait."

"Hazel, I'm not going through the Dementor's Kiss, I don't care what happens next - "

"I know," I say, "but they're bound to know your Patronus is a stag. Let me do it."

"They might know what yours is," he points out.

"Probably," I agree. "Still, better it be me than you."

Harry hesitates, then nods, lowering his wand. I raise my own wand and think of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the three of them safe and sound, as I whisper, " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

The silver coyote bursts from my wand and attacks. The Dementors scatter, and there's a triumphant yell from somewhere out of sight.

" _There!_ There it is - is - is it a stag?"

"No, it's - it looks like a coyote," says another Death Eater. "Then it can't be Potter, can it?"

"Potter doesn't travel alone, does he?" says the first Death Eater. "Besides, I remember the Dark Lord saying one of his little friend's Patronus was a coyote. Come on, follow it, down there!"

The Dementors have retreated, the stars popping out again. The footsteps of the Death Eaters are becoming louder. Before the panicked feeling inside of me could tell me what to do next, there's a grinding of bolts nearby, a door opens on the left of the narrow street, and a rough voice says, "Potter, in here, quick!"

It's mental, but the situation is desperate enough to obey without hesitation, the four of us hurrying through the open doorway.

"Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!" mutters a tall figure, passing us on his way into the street and slamming the door behind him.

I have no idea where we are, but until I see, by the stuttering light of a single candle, the grubby, sawdust bar of the Hog's Head Inn. We run behind the counter and through a second doorway, which leads to a rickety wooden staircase that we climb as fast as we can. The stairs open into a sitting room with a durable carpet and a small fireplace, above which hangs a single large oil painting of a blonde girl who gazes out at the room with a vacant sort of sweetness.

Shouts reach from the streets below. Still wearing the Invisibility Cloak, we hurry towards the grimy window and look down. Our saviour, who I now recognise as the barman of the Hog's Head, is the only person not wearing a hood.

"So, what?" he's bellowing into one of the hooded faces. "So, what? You send Dementors down my street, I'll send a Patronus back at 'em! I'm not having 'em near me, I've told you that! I'm not having it!"

"That wasn't your Patronus," says a Death Eater. "That was a coyote. It was one of Potter's little friend's!"

"Coyote!" roars the barman, and he pulls out his wand. "A coyote! You idiot -  _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Something huge and horned erupts from his wand. Head down, it charges towards the High Street and out of sight.

"That's not what I saw," says the Death Eaters, though he doesn't sound certain anymore.

"Curfew's been broken, you heard the noise," another Death Eater says. "Someone was out on the streets against regulations - "

"If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned your curfew!"

"You set off the Caterwauling Charm?"

"What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it, then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you haven't pressed your little Dark Marks and summoned him. He's not going to like being called here for me and my old cat, is he, now?"

"Don't worry about us," says one of the Death Eaters, "worry about yourself, breaking curfew!"

"And where will you lot traffic potions and poisons when my pub's closed down? What will happen to your little sidelines, then?"

"Are you threatening - ?"

"I keep my mouth shut, it's why you come here, isn't it?"

"I still saw I saw a coyote Patronus!" shouts the first Death Eater.

"Coyote?" the barman roars again. "It's a goat, idiot!"

"Alright, we made a mistake," says the second Death Eater. "Break curfew again and we won't be so lenient!"

The Death Eaters stride back towards the High Street. Hermione moans with relief, ducks out from under the Cloak, and sits down a wobble-legged chair. Harry draws the curtains and pulls the Cloak off of himself, Ron, and I. We can hear the barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, then climbing the stairs. I glance around the room and see a small, rectangular mirror, propped upright, right beneath the portrait of the girl. The barman enters the room.

"You bloody fools," he says gruffly, looking from one of us to the other. "What are you thinking, coming here?"

"Thank you," Harry says. "I can't thank you enough, You saved our lives!"

The barman grunts. Harry approaches him, looking up into his face. I study the barman carefully, trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-grey hair and beard. He wears spectacles. Behind the dirty lenses, his eyes are a piercing, brilliant blue.

"It's your eye I've been seeing in the mirror."

Harry says it as a statement rather than a question. There's silence in the room. Harry and the barman simply look at each other.

"You sent Dobby."

The barman nods and looks around, as though expecting to find the elf there, saying, "Thought he'd be with you. Where've you left him?"

"He's dead," says Harry. "Bellatrix Lestrange killed him."

The barman's face is impassive; after a few moments, he says, "I'm sorry to hear it. I liked that elf."

He turns away, lighting the lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of us.

"You're Aberforth," Harry says to the man's back.

The barman neither confirms or denies it, but instead bends to light the fire. I know it's true, however. As admittedly unexpected it is that Albus Dumbledore's brother would run a rather filthy bar, it makes sense. From the spectacles to the piercing blue eyes to, I remember suddenly, the photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix where he stood, I know he must be Aberforth Dumbledore.

"How did you get this?" Harry asks, walking across to the mirror, which I realise now is the twin of the mirror Harry had received from Sirius so long ago, the one that had belonged to Sirius once.

"Bought it from Dung 'bout a year ago," says Aberforth. "Albus told me what it was. Been trying to keep an eye out for you."

Ron gasps.

"The silver doe," he says excitedly. "Was that you, too?"

"What are you talking about?" Aberforth asks.

"Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!"

"Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. Haven't I just proven my Patronus is a goat?"

"Oh... yeah, well... I'm hungry!" Ron says defensively, and his stomach gives an enormous rumble as though to prove his point.

"I got food," Aberforth says, and slopes out of the room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he sets upon a small table in front of the fire.

Ravenous, we eat and drink, and for a while, the only sounds are of chewing.

"Right, then," Aberforth says, when we've eaten our fill and Harry and Ron have slumped dozily in their chairs. "We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can't be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outside after it gets dark. Caterwauling Charm sets off, they'll be onto you like Bowtruckles on Doxy eggs. I don't reckon I'll be able to pass a coyote off as a goat a second time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and you can Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. He's been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him."

"We're not leaving," says Harry, while I feel shocked but ultimately unsurprised that they tried to arrest Hagrid. "We need to get into Hogwarts."

"Don't be stupid, boy," says Aberforth.

"We've got to," says Harry.

"What you've got to do," Aberforth leans forward, "is get as far away from here as you can."

"You don't understand. There isn't much time. We've got to get into the castle. Dumbledore - I mean, your brother - wanted us - "

The firelight makes the grimy lenses of Aberforth's glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and I can remember the blind eyes of a giant spider, Aragog.

"My brother, Albus, wanted a lot of things," says Aberforth, "and people had a habit of getting hurt while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get away from this school, Potter, and out of the country if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. He's gone where none of this can hurt him, and you don't owe him anything."

"You don't understand," Harry repeats.

"Oh, don't I?" Aberforth says quietly. "You don't think I understood my own brother? Think you know Albus better than I did?"

"I didn't mean that," Harry replies. "It's... he's left me a job."

"Did he now?" Aberforth says. "Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you'd expect an unqualified kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?"

Ron gives a rather grim laugh. Hermione looks strained. I'm looking between Harry and Aberforth, my lips pressed into a tight line.

"I-It's not easy, no," Harry admits. "But I've got to - "

"Got to? Why got to? He's dead, isn't he?" Aberforth says roughly. "Let it go, boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I - " Harry doesn't seem to know how to explain, so he changes tact. "But you're fighting too, you're in the Order of the Phoenix - "

"I was," Aberforth agrees. "The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who's won, it's over, and anyone who's pretending different is kidding themselves. It'll never be safe for you here, Potter, he wants you too badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these three with you." He jerks a thumb at Ron, Hermione, and I. "They'll be in danger long as they live now everybody knows they've been working with you."

"I can't leave," Harry says. "I've got a job - "

"Give it to someone else!"

"I can't. It's got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all - "

"Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he honest with you?"

I want desperately for Harry to be able to say yes, but the fact of the matter is what it became clear with each passing day that Dumbledore had left Harry with the bare minimum. Aberforth seems to sense this.

"I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother's knee. Secrets and lies, that's how we grew up, and Albus... he was a natural."

The old man's eyes travels to the painting of the girl over the mantelpiece. Now that I've gotten to look around properly, I realise that it's the only picture in the room. There are no photographs of Albus Dumbledore, or anyone else, for that matter.

"Mr. Dumbledore?" Hermione says rather timidly. "Is that your sister? Ariana?"

"Yes," Aberforth says tersely. "Been reading Rita Skeeter, have you, missy?"

Even by the rosy light of the fire, it's clear that Hermione has turned red.

"Elphias Doge mentioned her to us," Harry says, clearly trying to spare Hermione.

"That old berk," Aberforth mutters, taking another swig of mead. "Thought the sun shone out of my brother's every orifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you four included, by the looks of it."

We're all quiet. We've all had our doubts about Dumbledore for months now, but we've made our choice, and we chose to continue along this winding, dangerous path Dumbledore has set out for us, to simply trust him as best as we could. We can't afford to listen to anything that could deflect us from this purpose. Harry meets Aberforth's gaze, so much like his brother's, the bright blue eyes that give the impression that they're X-raying the object of their scrutiny.

"Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry very much," Hermione says in a low voice.

"Did he now," says Aberforth. "Funny thing, how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he'd left 'em well alone."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks breathlessly.

"Never you mind," Aberforth says.

"But that's a really serious thing to say!" Hermione says. "Are you - are you talking about your sister?"

Aberforth glares at her. His lips move as if he's chewing the words he's holding back; then, he bursts into speech.

"When my sister was six years old, she was attacked, by three Muggle boys. They'd seen her doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge. She was a kid, she couldn't control it, no witch or wizard can at that age. What they saw scared them, I expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and when she couldn't show them the trick, they got a bit carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it."

Hermione's eyes are huge in the firelight. Ron looks slightly sick, and I feel the same way. Aberforth stands up, tall as Albus, and suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his pain.

"It destroyed her, what they did. She was never right again. She wouldn't use magic, but she couldn't get rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it exploded out of her when she couldn't control it, and at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly she was sweet and scared and harmless.

"And my father went after the bastards that did it," says Aberforth, "and attacked them. And they locked him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he'd done it, because if the Ministry had known what Ariana had become, she'd have been locked up in St. Mungo's for good. They'd have seen her as a serious threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, unbalanced as she was, with magic exploding out of her at moments when she couldn't keep it in any longer.

"We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved houses, put it out that she was ill, and my mother looked after her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.

"I was her favourite," he says, and as he says it, a grubby schoolboy seems to look out through Aberforth's wrinkles and wrangled beard. "Not Albus, he was always up in his bedroom when he was home, reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up with his correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day. He didn't want to be bothered by her. She liked me best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn't do it for my mother, I could calm her down, when she was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she used to help me feed the goats.

"Then, when she was fourteen... see, I wasn't there," says Aberforth. "If I was there, I could have calmed her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother wasn't as young as she was, and... it was an accident. Ariana couldn't control it. But my mother was killed."

I feel a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion. A part of me doesn't want to hear anymore, but Aberforth keeps talking. I wonder how long it's been since he has said any of this out loud, if he ever has at all.

"So that put a stop of Albus' trip round the world with Doge. The pair of 'em came home for my mother's funeral and than Doge went off on his own, and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!"

Aberforth spits into the fire.

"I'd have looked after her, I told him so, I didn't care about school, I'd have stayed home and done it. He told me I had to finish my education and he'd take over for my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr. Brilliant, there's no prizes for looking after your half-mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every other day. But he did alright for a few weeks... 'til he came."

That's when a positively dangerous look creeps over Aberforth's face.

"Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to talk to, someone just as bright and talented as he was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then, while they were hatching all their plans for a new Wizarding order and looking for Hallows, and whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand plans for the benefit of all of Wizardkind, and if one young girl was neglected, what did that matter, when Albus was working for the greater good?

"But after a few weeks of it, I'd had enough, I had. It was nearly time for me to go back to Hogwarts, so I told 'em, both of 'em, face-to-face, like I am to you, now," and Aberforth looks downward at us, and it takes a little imagination to see him as a teenager, wiry and angry, confronting his elder brother. "I told him, you'd better give it up now. You can't move her, she's in no fit state, you can't take her with you, wherever it is you're planning to go, when you're making your clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a following. He didn't like that," Aberforth says, and his eyes are briefly obstructed by the firelight on the lenses of his glasses, making them white and blind again. "Grindelwald didn't like that at all. He got angry. He told me what a stupid little boy I was, trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant brother... didn't I understand, my poor sister wouldn't have to be hidden once they'd changed the world, and led the wizards out of hiding, and taught the Muggles their place?

"And there was an argument... and I pulled out my wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus Curse used on me by my brother's best friend - and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us were duelling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she couldn't stand it - "

The colour is draining from Aberforth's face, as though he'd suffered a moral wound. I get an awful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realise where this is going.

" - and I think she wanted to help, but she didn't really know what she was doing, and I don't know which one of us did it, it could have been any of us - and she was dead."

His voice breaks on the last word and he drops down into the nearest chair. Hermione's face is wet with tears. Ron is almost as pale as Aberforth. Harry's staring at Aberforth, face blank. I feel physically ill, my eyes stinging with tears that I don't dare shed.

"I'm so... I'm so sorry," Hermione whispers.

"Gone," Aberforth croaks. "Gone forever."

He wipes his nose on his cuff and clears his throat.

"'Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a track record already, back in his own country, and he didn't want Ariana set to his account, too. And Albus was free, wasn't he? Free of the burden of his sister, free to become the greatest wizard of the - "

"He was never free," Harry cuts across him.

"I beg your pardon?" Aberforth says.

"Never," Harry says. "The night your brother died, he drank a potion that drove him out of his mind. He started screaming, pleading with someone who wasn't there. 'Don't hurt them, please... hurt me instead.'"

Ron, Hermione, and I are staring at Harry in surprise. He'd never gone into this much detail about what had happened when he and Dumbledore had set off to retrieve the locket. The events that had taken place after they had returned to Hogwarts had eclipsed it so thoroughly.

"He thought he was back there with you and Grindelwald, I know he did," Harry says. "He thought he was watching Grindelwald hurting you and Ariana. It was torture to him, if you'd seen him then, you wouldn't say he was free."

Aberforth seems lost in contemplation of his knotted and veined hands; after a long pause, he says, "How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn't more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you be sure you aren't dispensable, just like my little sister?"

I look at Harry and know immediately that the comment hit him hard.

"I don't believe it," Hermione says sharply. "Dumbledore loved Harry."

"Why didn't he tell him to hide, then?" Aberforth shoots back. "Why didn't he say to him, 'Take care of yourself, here's how to survive'?"

"Because," Harry says, before Hermione can say anything, "sometimes you've got to think about more than your own safety! Sometimes you've got to think about the greater good! This is war!"

"You're seventeen, boy!"

"I'm of age, and I'm going to keep fighting even if you've given up!"

"Who says I've given up?"

"'The Order of the Phoenix is finished,'" Harry repeats. "'You-Know-Who's won, it's over, and anyone who's pretending different is kidding themselves.'"

"I didn't say I like it, but it's the truth!"

"No, it's not," I say sharply, thinking of the Insurrectionary Squad, of Potterwatch, of Raya's sharp wit and promise to exact revenge on the Snatchers. "Even if it's not necessarily the Order, there are people from all over who are fighting in any way they can. Just because  _you've_ decided to quite doesn't mean it's over for everyone."

Aberforth turns his piercing eyes on me. For a moment, he says nothing, simply staring at me; then, he says, "Hazel Knight. People have been saying you're dead."

I blink. "People say a lot of things. I'm not easy to kill. I didn't  _give up_."

He stares at me a moment longer, before saying suddenly, "Your boy, you've turned him into a mess."

I stare at him, confused. "My boy?"

"That Weasley you used to sneak into my bar with," he says. Fred. He must mean Fred. "He's been all sorts of trouble for me because of you. You be careful with him. You've got more control over him than you know."

I blink at him, speechless, my heart rapidly pounding in my chest at the declaration. I'm about to ask him what he means by trouble when Harry says, "Look, your mother knew how to finish You-Know-Who and he passed the knowledge on to me. I'm going to keep going until I succeed - or I die. Don't think I don't know how this might end. I've known it for years."

I wait for Aberforth to jeer or to argue, but he doesn't. He merely moves.

"We need to get into Hogwarts," Harry says again. "If you can't help us, we'll wait until daybreak, leave you in piece, and try to find a way in ourselves. If you can help us - well, now would be a great time to mention it."

Aberforth remains fixed in his chair, gazing at Harry. At last, he clears his throat, gets to his feet, and walks around the little table, approaching the portrait of Ariana.

"You know what to do," he says.

She smiles, turns, and walks away, not the way people in portraits usually do, out one of the sides of their frames, but along what seems to be a long tunnel painted behind her. We watch her slight figure retreating until she's swallowed by the darkness.

"Er - what - ?" Ron begins.

"There's only one way in now," Aberforth explains. "You must know they've got all the old secret passageways covered at both ends, Dementors all around the boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from what my sources tell me. The place has never been so heavily guarded. How you expect to do anything once you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the Carrows as his deputies... well, that's your lookout, isn't it? You say you're prepared to die."

"But what...?" Hermione says, frowning at Ariana's picture.

A tiny white dot reappears at the end of the painted tunnel, and now Ariana is walking back towards us, growing bigger and bigger as she comes. But there's someone else with her now, someone taller than she is, who's limping along, looking excited. His hair is longer than I've ever seen it. He appears ragged and torn. Larger and larger the two figures grow, until only their heads and shoulders fit inside the portrait.

Then the whole thing swings forward on the wall like a little door, and the entrance to a real tunnel is revealed. And out of it, his hair overgrown, his face cut, his robes ripped, clambers the real Neville Longbottom, who gives a roar of delight, leaps from the mantelpiece, and cries out.

"I knew you'd come! I knew it, Harry!"


	39. Reunited

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Reunited**

 

"Neville - what the - how - ?"

But Neville has spotted Ron, Hermione, and I, and with yells of delight is hugging us, too. He hangs onto me for longer, before pulling away and holding me at arm's length.

"Hazel! Blimey, am I glad to see you! You gave us a scare, you did, with that news that you were dead! I should've known you would've found a way!"

"Er - yeah, thanks, Neville," I say, staring at him. "I'm glad to see you, too."

The longer I look at him, the worse he appears. One of his eyes is swollen and purple, there are gouge marks on his face, and his general air of unkemptness suggests that whatever exactly he's been doing, he's been up to no good. Nevertheless, his battered visage shines with happiness as he releases me and says again, "I knew you'd come! Kept telling Seamus it was only a matter of time!"

"Neville, what's happened to you?" I say finally.

"What? This?" Neville dismisses his injuries with a shake of his head. "This is nothing, Seamus is worse. You'll see. Shall we get going, then? Oh," he turns to Aberforth, "Ab, there might be a couple more people on the way."

"Couple more," Aberforth repeats ominously. "What d'you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There's a curfew and a Caterwauling Charm on the whole village!"

"I know, that's why they'll be Apparating directly into the bar," Neville explains. "Just send them down the passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot."

Neville holds out his hand to Hermione and helps her climb up onto the mantelpiece and into the tunnel. Ron follows, and I clamber up clumsily after them. Neville follows suit. Harry addresses Aberforth.

"I don't know how to thank you. You've saved our lives twice."

"Look after 'em, then," Aberforth says gruffly. "I might not be able to save 'em a third time."

Harry clambers up onto the mantelpiece and through the hole beyond Ariana's portrait. There are smooth stone steps on the other side. It looks as though the passageway has been here for years. Brass lamps hang from the walls and the earthy floor is warn and smooth. As we walk, our shadows ripple, fan-like, across the wall.

"How long has this been here?" I demand as we set off. "I've studied the Marauder's Map more times than I can count, I practically have that thing memorised, and I've never seen it on there. There are only seven passages in and out of the school, and this has never been one of them."

"They sealed off all of those before the start of the year," Neville says. "There's no chance of getting through any of them now, not with the curses over the entrances and the Death Eaters and Dementors waiting at the exits." He starts walking backwards, beaming, as though drinking us in. "Never mind that stuff... is it true? Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a dragon? It's everywhere, everyone's talking about it, Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about it in the Great Hall at dinner!"

"Yeah, it's true," Harry says.

Neville laughs gleefully.

"It's not as cool and glamorous as you're thinking it is," I warn him.

"What did you do with the dragon?"

"Released it into the wild," Ron replies. "Hermione was all for keeping it as a pet."

"Don't exaggerate, Ron - "

"But what have you been doing? People have been saying you've just been on the run, Harry, but I don't think so. I think you've been up to something."

"You're right," Harry says, "but tell us about Hogwarts, Neville, we haven't heard anything."

"It's been... well, it's not really like Hogwarts anymore," Neville says, the smile fading from his face as he speaks. "Do you know about the Carrows?"

"Those two Death Eaters who teach here now?"

"They do more than teach," Neville replies. "They're in charge of all the discipline. They like punishment, the Carrows."

"Like Umbridge?"

"Nah, they make her look tame," he replies. "The other teachers are all supposed to report us to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don't, though, if they can avoid it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do."

"Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defence Against the Dark Arts, except now it's just the Dark Arts. We're supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who've earned detentions - "

"What?"

Harry's, Ron's, Hermione's, and my united voices echo up and down the passage.

"Yeah," Neville says. "That's how I got this one," he points at a particularly deep gasp on his cheek, "I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they've ever been top in anything, I expect.

"Alecto, Amycus' sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone now. We've all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drive wizards into hiding by being vicious towards them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one," he indicates another slash to his face, "for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got."

"Blimey, Neville," Ron says, "there's a time and a place for getting a smart mouth."

"Even I've got to agree," I say, looking at Neville worriedly, "and you know how much I love making smart remarks."

"You didn't see her," Neville shakes his head. "You wouldn't have stood it, either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry."

"But they've been using you as a knife sharpener," Ron points out, wincing slightly as we pass a lamp and Neville's injuries are shown in a clearer light.

Neville shrugs.

"Doesn't matter. They don't want to spill too much pure blood, so they'll torture us a bit if we're mouthy but they won't actually kill us."

I'm not sure what's worse: the things Neville is saying, or the matter-of-fact way he's saying them.

"The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovehood was getting too outspoken in  _The Quibbler_ , so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back for Christmas."

"Neville, she's alright, we've seen her - "

"Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me."

From his pocket he pulls out a gold coin, and I recognise it as one of the fake Galleons that Dumbledore's Army had used to send one another messages.

"These have been great," Neville says, beaming at Hermione. "The Carrows never worked out how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls: 'Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting,' stuff like that. Snape hated it."

"You used to?" Harry says, noticing the use of past tense, the way I have.

"Well, it got more difficult as time went on," Neville explains. "We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first year they'd chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off."

"No kidding," Ron mutters, as the passage begins to slope upwards.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right up until a couple of weeks ago. That's when they decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, and they went for Gran."

"They  _what?_ " Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I say together.

"Yeah," Neville says, panting a little now, because the passage is climbing so steeply, "well, you can see their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave. I suppose it was only a matter of time before they did it the other way around. Thing was," he faces us, and I'm astonished to find him grinning, "they bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought they didn't need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway," Neville laughs, "Dawlish is still in St. Mungo's and Gran's on the run. She sent me a letter," he claps a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, "telling me she was proud of me, that I'm my parent's son, and to keep it up."

"That's great, Neville," I say, and I mean it; Neville's grandmother had always been hard on him.

"Yeah," he says happily. "Only thing was, once they realised they had no hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don't know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban, but either way, I knew it was time to disappear."

"But," Ron says, looking thoroughly confused, "aren't - aren't we heading straight back for Hogwarts?"

"'Course," Neville says. "You'll see. We're here."

We turn a corner and there ahead of us is the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps leads to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana's portrait. Neville pushes it open and climbs through. As we follow, we can hear Neville call out to unseen people.

"Look who it is! Didn't I tell you?"

As Harry emerged into the room behind the passage first, there are several screams and yells, "HARRY!"

"It's Potter! IT'S POTTER!"

"Ron!"

"Hazel! I knew you were alive, I knew it!"

"Hermione!"

I have a confused impression of coloured hangings, of lamps and many faces. The next moment, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are engulfed, hugged, pounded on the back, our hair ruffled, our hands shaken, by what seems to be more than twenty people. We might have just won a Quidditch final.

"Okay, okay, calm down!" Neville calls, and as the crowd backs away. I'm able to take in our surroundings.

I don't recognise the dorm at all. It's enormous, and looks rather like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree or house, or perhaps a gigantic ship's cabin. Multicoloured hammocks are strung from the ceiling and from the balcony that surround the dark wood-panelled and windowless walls, which are covered in bright tapestry hangings. I see the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and green of Slytherin alone are absent. There are bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and in the corner, a large-wood cased wireless.

"Where are we?"

"Room of Requirement, of course!" Neville says. "Surpassed itself, hasn't it?" The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout. I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn't exactly like this when I arrived, it was much smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it's expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived."

"And the Carrows can't get in?" I ask apprehensively, looking around for the door.

"No," says Seamus, who I hadn't recognised until he speaks just now, as his face is bruised and puffy. "It's a proper hideout, as long as one of us stays in here, they can't get at us, the door won't open. It's all down to Neville. He really gets this room. You've got to ask for exactly what you need - like, 'I don't want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in' - and it'll do it for you! You've just got to make sure you close the loopholes. Neville's the man!"

"It's quite straightforward, really," Neville says modestly, clearly unwilling to admit to being the man. "I'd been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that's when the passage to the Hog's Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He's been providing us with food, because for some reason, that's the one thing the room doesn't really do."

"Yeah, well, food's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," Ron says to general astonishment. I bite back a laugh with difficulty.

"So we've been hiding out here for nearly two weeks," says Seamus, "and it just makes more hammocks every time we need room, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls starts turning up - "

" - and thought they'd quite like to wash, yes," supplies Lavender Brown, whom I hadn't noticed until that point. In fact, the more I look around, the more familiar faces I begin to see; both Patil twins are there, as are Terry Boot, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Jace Landon.

"Tell us what you've been up to, though," Jace says. "There've been so many rumours, we've been trying to keep up with you on Potterwatch." He points at the wireless. "You didn't break into Gringotts, did you?"

"They did!" Neville says. "And the dragon's true, too!"

There's a smattering of applause and a few whoops at that. Ron takes a bow.

"Again, not as glamorous and cool as it sounds," I try to tell them, yanking Ron by his collar and making him stand up straight again, but I know it's unlikely that they'll listen.

"What were you after?" Seamus asks eagerly.

Before we can parry that question with one of our own, Harry suddenly turns his back on the curious and delighted faces in front of us. Everyone turns to him worriedly.

"Harry?" I say, my brow furrowed, but he doesn't respond. Ron, Hermione, and I exchange meaningful looks. He's looking into Voldemort's mind again, and whatever he's seeing can't be good.

When he begins to sway dangerously, Ron and I hurry forward to hold him up and keep him from falling. His face is screwed up against the pain and sweat is pouring down his face. Soon, however, he's opening his eyes again and steadying himself with difficulty. Ron and I stay close by his sides, however, just in case.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Neville is saying. "Want to sit down? I expect you're tired, aren't - ?"

"No," Harry says, before looking over at Ron, Hermione, and I meaningfully. "We need to get going."

The three of us understand immediately. We're running out of time. Voldemort is getting closer and closer.

"What are we going to do, then, Harry?" Seamus asks. "What's the plan?"

"Plan?" Harry repeats, rubbing his forehead distractedly. "Well there's something we - Ron, Hermione, Hazel, and I - need to do, and then we'll get out of here."

Nobody is laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looks confused.

"What d'you mean, 'get out of here'?"

"We haven't come back to stay," Harry explains. "There's something we need to do - "

"What is it?"

"I - I can't tell you."

There's a rippling of muttering at this. Neville's brows contract.

"Why can't you tell us? It's something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, right?"

"Well, yeah - "

"Then we'll help you."

The other members of Dumbledore's Army are nodding, some enthusiastically, other solemnly. A couple of the rise from their chairs as though to demonstrate their willingness to jump into immediate action.

"You don't understand," Harry says, something he seems to be saying a lot in the last few hours. "We - we can't tell you. We've got to do it - alone."

"Why?" Neville asks.

"Because... Dumbledore left the four of us a job," he says carefully, "and we weren't supposed to tell - I mean, he wanted us to do it, just the four of us."

"We're his army," Neville says. "Dumbledore's Army. We were all in it together, we've been keeping it going while you four have been off on your own - "

"It hasn't exactly been a picnic, mate," Ron says.

"I never said it has, but I don't see why you can't trust us," Neville argues. "Everyone in this room's been fighting and they've been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting them down. Everyone in here's proven that they're loyal to Dumbledore - loyal to you."

"Look," Harry begins, but before he can continue, the tunnel door opens just behind us.

"We got your message, Neville! Hello, you four, I thought you must be here!"

It's Luna and Dean. Seamus gives a great roar of delight and runs to hug Dean.

"Hi, everyone!" Luna says happily. "Oh, it's great to be back!"

"Luna," Harry says distractedly, "what are you doing here? How did you - ?"

"I sent for her," Neville explains, holding up the fake Galleon. "I promised her and Ginny that if you turned up I'd let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows."

"Of course that's what it means," Luna says brightly. "Isn't it, Harry? We're going to fight them out of Hogwarts?"

"Listen," Harry says, an edge of panic coming into his tone now. "I'm sorry, but that's not what we came back for. There's something we've got to do, and then - "

"You're going to leave us in this mess?" demands Michael Corner.

"No!" Ron says. "What we're doing will benefit everyone in the end, it's all about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who - "

"Then let us help!" Neville says angrily. "We want to be a part of it!"

There's another noise behind us. I turn around and my heart falls to the region of my stomach while simultaneously doing a dozen somersaults. Ginny is climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Fred meets my eyes and for a moment all we do is stare at each other, and it's a torrent of emotions I had forgotten I could still feel - or had I just forbidden myself from feeling them? This feels like looking at the sun, it's hot and it burns and I can't handle it for long, tearing my eyes away. I still watch him out of the corner of my eye, though, the way he force the disappointed look off his face and tries to act casually.

"Aberforth's getting a bit annoyed," he says, raising his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. "He wants a kip, and his bar's turned into a railway station."

Harry's mouth falls open, because right behind Lee Jordan comes Harry's ex-girlfriend - can you call her a girlfriend? - Cho Chang. She smiles at him. I almost laugh at the look on Harry's face.

"I got the message," she says, holding up her own fake Galleon and walking over to sit beside Michael Corner.

"So what's the plan, Harry?" George says.

"There isn't one," Harry replies, likely as disoriented as I am by the sudden appearance of all these people.

"Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favourite kind," Fred says, and I have to force myself not to laugh. I don't deserve it.

"You've got to stop this!" Harry tells Neville. "What did you call them all back for? This is insane - "

"We're fighting, aren't we?" Dean says, taking out his fake Galleon. "The message said that Harry was back, and we were going to fight! I'll have to get a wand, though - "

"You haven't got a wand - ?" Seamus begins.

I bite my lip, looking around at the assembled group thoughtfully. Then I turn suddenly to Harry.

"Why can't they help?"

Harry blinks. "What?"

"They can help," I say, dropping my voice so that none of them can hear but Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "We don't know where it is. We've got to find it fast. We don't have to tell them it's a Horcrux. Besides, everything's going to hell and I'm starting to think there's going to be some sort of fight whether we like it or not. They want to fight, let them do it. I don't like it, either, Harry," I say, at the look he gives me, "but You-Know-Who is coming to Hogwarts whether we like it or not. They're going to be in danger either way now. Most of them are of age, we can't stop them. They want to fight, let them fight."

Hermione murmurs, "I think Hazel's right. We don't even know what we're looking for, we need them."

"I think we should let them help, too," Ron says. When Harry is still unconvinced, he adds, "You don't have to do everything alone, Harry."

For a moment, Harry appears to be at war with himself, before he speaks.

"Alright," he says quietly to us, then again, louder, so everyone can hear. All noise ceases; Fred and George, who have been cracking jokes for the benefit of those nearest, fall silent, and all of them look alert, excited. "There's something we need to find. Something - something that'll help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It's here at Hogwarts, but we don't know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?"

He looks hopefully to the little group of Ravenclaws assembled, to Padma, Jace, Michael, Terry, and Cho, but it's Luna who answers, perched on the arm of Ginny's chair.

"Well, there's her lost diadem. I told you about it, remember, Harry? The lost diadem of Ravenclaw? Daddy's trying to duplicate it."

"Yeah, but the lost diadem," Michael Corner says, rolling his eyes, "is lost, Luna. That's sort of the point."

"When was it lost?" I ask.

"Centuries ago, they say," Cho replies, and my heart sinks. "Professor Flitwick says the diadem vanished with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but," she appeals to her fellow Ravenclaws. "Nobody's ever found a trace of it, have they?"

They all shake their heads.

"Sorry, but what is a diadem?" Ron asks.

"It's a sort of crown," Jace explains. "Ravenclaw's was supposed to have magical properties, enhance the wisdom of the wearer."

"Yes, Daddy's Wrackspurt siphons - "

Harry cuts across Luna.

"And none of you have ever seen anything that looks like it?"

They all shake their heads again. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange glances, and I see my own disappointment mirrored back at me. An object that had been lost for centuries, and apparently without any sort of trace, does not seem like a very good candidate for the Horcrux hidden in the castle... before any of us can formulate a new question to ask, Cho speaks up again.

"If you'd like to see what the diadem's supposed to look like, I could take you up to our common room and show you, Harry. Ravenclaw's wearing it in her statue."

Harry sways dangerously on the spot again, but Ron grabs onto him to steady him. Harry's eyes are closed again, grabbing onto his forehead, but a moment later he's steady and his eyes are open again, though he's panicked now.

"He's on the move," he says quietly to us. He glances at Cho, then back at the three of us. "Listen, I know it's not much of a lead, but I'm going to go look at this statue, at least find out what the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you know - the other one - safe."

Cho has risen to her feet, but Ginny says rather fiercely, "No, Luna will take Harry, won't you, Luna?"

"Oooh, yes, I'd like to," Luna says happily, as Cho sits down again, looking disappointed. I bite back a grin.

"How do we get out?" Harry asks Neville.

"Over here."

He leads Harry and Luna to a corner, where a small cupboard opens onto a steep staircase.

"It comes out somewhere different every day, so they've never been able to find it," Neville explains. "Only trouble is, we never know exactly where we're going to end up when we go out. Be careful, Harry, they're always patrolling the corridors at night."

"No problem," Harry says. "See you in a bit."

He and Luna hurry up the staircase and disappear out of sight. Neville hurries away, muttering something about sending messages to the rest of Dumbledore's Army. I turn to Ron and Hermione.

"We've still got the Horcrux, yeah?"

Hermione digs her hand in the beaded bag, rummages through it, before nodding and saying, "Yes, it's here."

"Good," I say. "Keep that with you."

"This is all fine and well," Ron says, "but I still don't see the point in all of this if we have no way of destroying the Horcruxes."

I shrug. "What can we do? At least for now, anyway. The sword of Gryffindor was our only way of destroying it, we'll just have to - "

"Wait a minute!" Ron says, his whole face lighting up. "Wait, wait, wait - the whole reason the sword of Gryffindor can destroy Horcruxes is because Harry used it to kill the Basilisk and it absorbed the venom, right?"

"Yes," Hermione says slowly, not understanding where he's going with this.

"So it's not the sword that's destroying the Horcruxes, it's the venom," Ron continues.

"Right," I say, frowning at him. "Now, why are we restating the obvious?"

"So, it's not the sword we need, it's the Basilisk venom," Ron says. "And we just so happen to have a huge stock of Basilisk venom right here in - "

" - the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione and I say together, realisation dawning on us at last.

"You're a genius, Ron!" I say excitedly, just as Hermione says, "Ron, that's really brilliant!"

"Well, don't sound so surprised," he says, though he looks pleased. "Look, the sooner we go and get some of that venom and destroy that cup, the better. Hermione, you come with me; Hazel, you should stay and hold the fort."

I raise my eyebrows at this command. "You're sure you don't need any extra back-up?"

"It's not like the Basilisk's still alive," Ron points out. "The only real danger would be getting in there without being caught. In any case, they all might need you to stay organised."

I look around and see that he has a point. More members of the original Dumbledore's Army are coming in as we speak.

"Fair point," I say.  _You also won't want me being a third wheel,_ I think, but decide against saying it out loud. "But wait, won't we have to wait for Harry? You'll need to speak Parseltongue to get into the Chamber, and unless one of you have suddenly become Parselmouths without telling me..."

For a moment, both Ron and Hermione look stumped. Then, Ron admits a series of horrible hissing noises that does, admittedly, sound vaguely like Harry when he speaks Parseltongue.

"Harry - he - he made a noise a bit like that when he opened the locket," Ron explains, looking sheepish. "I know it's not perfect - it'll take me a couple tries to get it right - but I might be able to get it open."

Hermione's frowning. "I don't think just imitating it will be enough - "

"It's worth a shot," I say. "Go. Worst comes to worse, you won't get it and you'll come back and Harry can go and do it for real and we won't have lost anything."

Ron and Hermione nod. I wish them good luck, and they hurry out of the same exit Harry and Luna had disappeared through not too long ago.

"Oi - where are you lot going?  _Hey_ , where are you going?" Ginny calls after them, but they don't reply, disappearing out the exit. Ginny rounds on me. "Where are they going?"

"Bathroom break," I reply vaguely. Before she can question me further, I say, "Never you mind. We've got other matters we need to focus on - "

"You're right, we do," she says, suddenly stern, turning to face me more squarely. I raise my eyebrows at her questioningly, just as she punches me in the chest. I wince a little, but immediately grip onto both of her wrists before she can hit me again.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demand.

"That's for scaring the living hell out of me!" Ginny says. "Merlin, Hazel, I thought you were dead! Don't do that do me!"

"I can promise you that I didn't want to - " I begin, but she finally manages to pry her hands free of my grip. Instead of hitting me again, though, she wraps me instead in a tight hug. I stand in shock for a moment, before relaxing and hugging her back just as tightly.

"We all thought we lost you," Ginny says earnestly when we pull away, gripping my arms.

"Yeah, Knight, you gave us a real scare," Lee says gravely, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug himself.

" _I_ always believed you survived somehow," George jumps in. "There was no way you'd go down this easy."

"George, you were crushed, shut the hell up," Ginny says impatiently, and George, Lee, and I all laugh.

"Yeah, alright, maybe a little bit," George confessed. "Now come hug me, you little shit."

With that, he yanks me in a tight hug. Grinning, I hug him back tightly, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Seriously, though, Knight," George said quietly. "Don't scare us like that again."

His voice is enough for me to realise how much my fake death must have shaken all of them. When we pull away, I give him a quick smile and a nod, which I hope is enough to say that he doesn't need to worry about me.

"Uh, yeah, Knight, you had us all real worried." I look round to see Fred has shuffled forward slightly. He looks sheepish and a little confused, as though he doesn't know whether to step forward or back away. "It takes a lot to get George to lose his cool. And I didn't even know how to - losing you made me - the thought of never seeing you again almost killed me. I - "

Except by then any self-control I might have had is lost. I race forward, launching into his arms, wrapping my arms around his neck, and cutting him off by kissing him full on the mouth. He stumbles backward a few steps before regaining his balance. For a moment, he's frozen in place, but then he's kissing me back and I'm practically melting into him. He wraps his arms around my waist to pull me closer to him, and I run my fingers through his hair, my head spinning wildly, because he's here, he's real, he's underneath my fingers again and I won't lose him again, he won't lose  _me_ again - 

He's bright eyed and messy haired and breathless when he pulls away, looking like he's not entirely sure what he's seeing is real. "I - you - what are you - ?"

"I love you," I blurt out, and I hadn't meant to say it, or at least not like  _that_ , but once I start, I can't stop. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm in love with you, I love you, Fred, so much. I think I always have, but I just - I was afraid to love you, and I was afraid to admit it, and I was afraid that you didn't actually love me, that I didn't deserve you, and that you'd realise it too and I'd be left alone, or that I'd hurt you if something ever happened to me, so I just - I ran away and thought you'd be better off," the words come out of me in a torrent, and I hadn't even thought about half of these things before, not consciously, at least, but even as I say them, I know they're true. "But a very wise woman told me that I can't put every little thing a person might need before myself and think that counts as love, and that I can't let how I feel go to waste. So I'm not. And I love you. I love you. I love you, I - "

This time it's Fred who cuts me off by kissing me. He kisses me a little desperately, taking my face in his hands and sighing what sounds like my name and "I love you too" into my mouth. We're both snapped out of our stupor, however, when there's a loud cough from beside us.

"Listen, this is all very touching, and I understand you've had your issues for the past little bit, but if you could refrain from swapping spit like that directly in front of me, that would be appreciated," George says pointedly, as Fred and I pull away from each other and turn to look at him, Ginny, and Lee.

"I would've been a bit more tactful about how I said it, but I agree," Ginny pipes up.

"I also agree wholeheartedly," Lee adds, raising a hand.

"How about you three give us a fucking break," Fred says, raising his eyebrows. "I haven't seen her in nearly a year - I thought she was dead for a while there. Besides, you lot don't have to stand there and look."

"Yeah, well, you two were making the noises and everything," George retorts. "Would you like for me to cover my ear, too?"

I roll my eyes at him, but before I can retort, a familiar voice cries out, "There she is! I told you, I told you all she'd be here!"

I whip around, then let out a cry of delight, because moving into the room slowly, pausing from looking around the room in interest to look directly at me, are Grover Bassili, Marina Kita, Felix Nichols, Layla Meadowes, and Devon Fuller. I detach myself from Fred to rach towards them, flinging myself immediately into a group hug.

"You - it's you! How - how are you - what are you doing here?" I say as we pull away.

Grover shrugs. "We were in the neighbourhood. Heard some commotion, heard people talking about a rebellion at Hogwarts, thought it was up our alley - from there it was kind of a struggle to figure out how to get here, but we figured it out in the end."

"We thought you might be here, Hazel," Felix says with a grin.

"Er - you mean  _I_ knew she'd be there," Devon says, raising his eyebrows. He turns to me with a long-suffering look in his eyes. "They told me I was naive to think that you'd be here. I told them that if there's one thing I know about Hazel Knight, it's that she will always find a way to bring herself right in the eye of the hurricane - hell, you _are_ the hurricane."

"Thanks, Devon," I say, raising my eyebrows. "Very flattering of you to say."

"Only for you," he says with a grin and a wink.

At that moment, before anyone can say or do anything, a voice cries out, " _Devon!_ "

Jace Landon is rushing forward, pushing his way through the crowd to get to his boyfriend. Once he reaches him, he promptly flings his arms around him and kisses him then and there. Grover, Marina, Felix, Layla, and I all exchange looks, but back away a few steps and look away, allowing them their moment.

"Uh - Hazel? You made some new friends, then?"

It's Fred who asks the question, somewhat sheepishly. He, George, Ginny, and Lee have all shuffled forward, uncharacteristically shy, probably from surprise. I grin at them.

"Well, Jace and Devon are old friends, but I know what you mean. I met them on the road," I reply. I nod at Marina. "That's the wise woman I was talking about."

Marina raises her eyebrows. "Is that sarcasm, Knight?"

"Not at all," I say easily. "I only mean that I - er - I learned to take your advice."

Marina nods, looking pleasantly surprised. "Well, I'm glad."

More people are coming into the room, most of them members of the Order or former Hogwarts students who have either graduated or left early since they were on the run. As more people fill the room, groups begin to form, reuniting, speaking in whispers, some anxious, some excited. Remus comes in alongside Kingsley Shacklebolt, and immediately moves to stand beside me, pulling me into a quick, tight hug.

"Where's Tonks?" I ask curiously.

"With her mother, we agreed one of us should stay with the baby," he explains.

"Congratulations on the kid, by the way," George pipes up cheerily.

"Yeah, but I'm a little offended you didn't name him after your favourite student," Fred adds.

"Ignore the delusional bloke beside me," I tell Remus.

"Hazel, what's going on?" Remus asks. "We're hearing talk of rebellion, of a fight going on here - ?"

"I - it's a bit - "

I realise I need a way to address the room at large. I find myself wishing for a way to stand taller than everyone else in the room, and just as the thought crosses my mind, a step ladder appears a few feet from me. A grin slowly crosses my face.

"Room of Requirement," I mutter. "Gotta love it."

I stride over to it, climbing up the steps of the ladder. I look around the room with my hands on my hips. When the talking shows no sign of stopping, I bring my fingers to my mouth and whistle as loudly as I can. There's a confused muttering around the room as people look around, trying to find the source of the noise, before their eyes all land on me and the noise dies down. Trying not to suddenly get stage fright, I take a deep breath and start to speak.

"Right. It's my understand that a lot of you might not fully understand what's going on. I get that, and I feel for you, but the thing is, we - Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I - we've been left a bit of a job to do, and part of our instructions is that we can't tell anyone what it is we're doing. I know that might be frustrating for a lot of you," I say quickly, when I note people looking irritated, "but we really can't tell you much - at least, not yet. But I can tell you that we're - we're looking for something, and we're not entirely sure what it is yet, or where it is, but it's here in the castle, and we need to get to it as soon as we can. And from the looks of it, there's going to be a fight. It's only a matter of time before You-Know-Who himself shows up."

Immediately, whispers break out between people, a mixture of anxious and downright scared. I hasten to continue, raising my voice to stop the talking.

"So if you want to fight with us, then we'd... we'd definitely appreciate it. But this is going to be dangerous - life-threatening. So if you want to get out now and get to safety, then no one will stop you. And if someone does try to stop you, they'll have to go through me, and they won't like what happens to them."

At that, I spread my hands and conjure up fire in each of my palms. The action has the desired effect, judging from the mixture of shocked, impressed looks on people's faces.

"Anyone who would like to leave can leave through the passage here," I indicate the passageway through which Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I had come. "You can either stay in the Hog's Head for the night, or I bet you'll be able to escape and Apparate to safety - I have a feeling Death Eaters aren't going to be too chuffed about people breaking curfew tonight.

"Now, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are all off doing - erm - reconnaissance. They'll be back soon, and from there, we'll get further - er - insight about how to act from there. For now, hang tight, and get ready for a fight. Understood?"

I wait until everyone is nodding and murmuring their assent, before saying, "Great," and hopping off the step ladder.

Somehow, even more people had come into the room while I was speaking. Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson are standing together, and they all give me a nod. Angelina mouths something that looks like "Nice speech." Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are there now, along with Charlie, Bill, and Fleur. Immediately, Mrs. Weasley throws her arms around me in a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh, Hazel, thank goodness you're alive!" she cries out. "It's such a relief to see you, such a relief - "

"It's good to see you, too, Mrs. Weasley," I say, hugging her back tightly. It feels so much like a mother's hug that I have to force myself not to get upset when we pull away. I nod at Mr. Weasley, who grabs onto my shoulder, which I imagine is the best way he can express his relief that I'm not dead.

I detect a flash of movement, and turn to see Harry and Luna speeding back into the Room of Requirement. Harry looks around at the room, much more packed than it was when he left it, and nearly falls down the stairs in shock. I race over to the two of them, Remus right behind me.

"Harry, any updates?" Remus asks.

"Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading the school - Snape's run for it - what are you doing here? How did you know?"

"Neville sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore's Army," Fred explains. "You couldn't expect everyone to miss the fun. And then Dumbledore's Army let members of the Order know, and it's all just been snowballing ever since."

"What first, Harry?" George says. "What's going on?"

"They're evacuating the younger kids and everyone's meeting in the Great Hall to get organised," Harry replies. "We're fighting."

There's a great roar and a surge towards the stairs. Members of the Order, of Dumbledore's Army, of the Insurrectionary Squad, and of my old Quidditch team alike, all with their wands drawn, heading towards the Great Hall.

"Come on, Luna," Dean calls as he passes, holding out his free hand; she takes it and follows him back up the stairs.

The crowd is thinning. Only a little knot of people remain in the Room of Requirement, and Harry starts to join us. Mrs. Weasley is currently struggled with Ginny. Around them stand Fred, George, Bill, Fleur, Remus, Charlie, and I.

"You're underage!" Mrs. Weasley shouts at her daughter as Harry approaches us. "I won't permit it! The boys, yes, but, you, you've got to go home!"

"I won't!"

Ginny's hair goes flying as she wrenches her arm from her mother's grip.

"I'm in Dumbledore's Army - "

"A teenagers' gang!"

"A teenager' gang that's about to take them on, which no one else has dared to do!" Fred points out.

"She's sixteen!" Mrs. Weasley shouts. "She's not old enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her with you - "

Fred and George look slightly ashamed of themselves.

"Mum's right, Ginny," Bill says gently. "You can't do this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it's only right."

"I can't go home!" she shouts, angry tears sparkling in her eyes, "my whole family's here, I can't stand waiting there alone and not knowing - "

Her eyes meet Harry's, and she looks at him beseechingly. Harry only shakes his head, and she looks away bitterly.

"Fine," she says, staring at the entrance to the tunnel back to the Hog's Head. "I'll say goodbye now, then, and - "

There's a scuffling and a great thump. Someone else has clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced slightly, and fallen. He pulls himself up on the nearest chair, looks around through lopsided horn-rimmed glasses, and says, "Am I too late? Has it started? I only just found out, so I - I - I - "

Percy Weasley splutters into silence. Evidently, for whatever reason, he had not expected to find his entire family here. There's a long moment of astonished silence, broken by Fleur, who turns to Remus and says, in an utterly transparent attempt to break the tension, "So - 'ow eez leetle Teddy?"

Remus looks at her, startled. The tension between the Weasleys seems to be solidifying like ice.

"I - oh, yes - he's fine!" Remus says loudly, "yes, he's with Tonks - at her mother's - "

Percy and the other Weasleys are still staring at each other, frozen.

"Here, I've got a picture!" Remus shouts, pulling out a photograph from inside his jacket and showing it to Harry, Fleur, and I, displaying a tiny baby with a tuft of turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

"I was a foo!" Percy roars, so loudly that Remus almost drops the photograph. "I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a - a - a - "

"Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron," Fred supplies for him.

Percy swallows.

"Yes, I was!"

"Well, you can't say fairer than that," Fred says, holding a hand out to Percy.

Mrs. Weasley bursts into tears. She runs forward, pushes Fred aside, and pulls Percy into a strangling hug, while he pats her on the back, his eyes on his father.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

Mr. Weasley blinks rapidly, then rushes to hug his son, too.

"What made you see sense, Perce?" George asks, genuinely curious.

"It's been coming on for a while," Percy says, mopping his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his travelling cloak. "But I had to find a way out and it's not so easy at the Ministry, they're imprisoning traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with Aberforth and he tipped me off about ten minutes ago that Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I am."

"Well, we do look to our prefects to lead in times such as these," George says, in his best imitation of Percy's most pompous manner. "Now let's get upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters will be taken."

"So, you're my sister-in-law, now?" Percy says, shaking hands with Fleur as they hurry up the staircase with Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George.

"Ginny!" barks Mrs. Weasley.

Ginny had been attempting, under the cover of the scene of reconciliation, to sneak upstairs, as well.

"Molly, how about this," Remus suggests. "Why doesn't Ginny stay here, then at least she'll be on the scene and know what's going on, but she won't be involved in the fighting?"

"I - "

"That's a good idea," Mr. Weasley says firmly. "Ginny, you stay in this room, you hear me?"

Ginny doesn't seem to much like this idea, but nods under her father's unusually stern gaze. Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, and Remus all head up the stairs, as well.

"Where's Ron and Hermione?" Harry asks.

"They must've gone up to the Great Hall already," Mrs. Weasley calls over her shoulder.

"I didn't see them pass me," Harry says.

"Hazel's been going on about a bathroom," Ginny says. "They left not long after you did."

Harry looks at me, baffled. "Bathroom?"

Before I can say anything, Harry strides across the room to an open door leading off the Room of Requirement, peering into the bathroom beyond. Once he finds that it's empty, he turns back to me, more confused than ever.

"What the hell d'you mean by bathroom - ?" he begins.

In spite of everything, it takes a lot to bite back a laugh. I'm about to explain, but before I can, Harry winces, stumbling back until he's against the wall, clutching his forehead in pain. Ginny and I exchange worried looks, before rushing over to him.

"Harry? Harry!" Ginny says, eyes wide. "He's seeing into his mind again, isn't he?"

"Voldemort must be feeling a whole lot of strong emotions right now, it'll be hard for Harry to keep out," I say worriedly. "HARRY! Harry, snap out of it!"

When Harry opens his eyes again, they're wide and shining with fear.

"What did you see?" I ask immediately.

Harry turns to look at me slowly, giving me a meaningful look, and suddenly, somehow, I know exactly what he saw. Still, he takes a moment to collect himself, to appear more calm, before he answers.

"He's here. He's here and he's out for blood."


	40. The Diadem

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Forty: The Diadem**

 

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall is dark and scattered with stars, and below it the four long House tables are lined with disheveled students, some in travelling cloaks, others in dressing gowns. Here and there shine the pearly white figures of the Hogwarts ghosts. Every eye, living and dead, is fixed on Professor McGonagall, who is speaking from the raised platform at the top of the Hall. Behind her stands the remaining teachers (Snape has fled, and Harry told me on the way to the Hall about the take-down of the Carrows), including the palomino centaur, Firenze, and the others who have arrived to fight.

"... evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organise your house and take your charges in orderly fashion to the evacuation point."

Many of the students look petrified, and I suppose I can't blame them. However, as Harry and I stand against the wall, a little ways off from the Gryffindor table, keeping an eye out for any sign of Ron and Hermione (I had also explained to Harry on the way to the Hall what I meant by a bathroom break), Ernie Macmillan stands from the Hufflepuff table and shouts, "And what if we want to stay and fight?"

There's a smattering of applause at his words.

"If you are of age, you may stay," McGonagall replies.

"What about our things?" a girl from the Ravenclaw table calls out. "Our trunks, our owls?"

"We have no time to collect possessions," McGonagall says. "The important thing is to get you out of here safely."

"Where's Professor Snape?" shouts a girl from the Slytherin table.

"He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk," McGonagall says, the statement met with cheers from the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw tables. Even I have to smirk a little at the statement.

People are beginning to notice us, faces turning in our direction and whispers breaking out. At first I think they're just directed at Harry, as they always are, until I realise people are just as wide-eyed and surprised about seeing me. I realise my faked death and my status as an Undesirable has made me a bit of a celebrity.

"We've already placed protections around the castle," Professor McGonagall is saying, "but it is highly unlikely that it will hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects - "

But her final words are drowned out as a different voice echoes throughout the Hall. It's high, cold, clear, and horribly familiar. There's no way of knowing where the voice is coming from; it seems to be issued from the walls themselves. Like the monster it used to command, it might have lain dormant there for centuries.

"I know that you are preparing to fight." There are screams among the students, some of them clutching each other, looking around for the source of the voice. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

There's silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence that presses against the eardrums, that seems too huge to be contained by walls.

"Give me Harry Potter," says Voldemort's voice, "and they shall not be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded.

"You have until midnight."

The silence swallows us again. Every head has turned, every set of eyes now placed only on Harry. Then a figure rises from the Slytherin table, and I recognise Pansy Parkinson as she raises a shaking arm and screams, "But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!"

Before Harry can do anything, I listen to her. I grab onto Harry, pushing him behind me so that I can stand in front of him in what is unmistakably a protective stance, drawing my wand. My message is clear; anyone who wants to get to Harry will have to go through me first. After, there's a massive movement. The Gryffindors in front of us all stand to face not us, but the Slytherins. Then the Hufflepuffs stand, and almost at the same moment, the Ravenclaws do, too, all of them with their backs to Harry and I, all of them facing Pansy Parkinson and the rest of the Slytherins. Awestruck and overwhelmed, I watch as wands are drawn, pulled out from beneath cloaks and under sleeves.

"Well, this is a relief," I say under my breath, my own wand still drawn.

"Were you bluffing?" Harry asks.

"Oh, no, I would've fought them all off," I murmur back matter-of-factly, and I mean it. "I'm just not entirely sure I would've won against the whole school, you see."

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," McGonagall says in a clipped voice. "You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow."

I can hear the grinding of benches and the sound of all of the Slytherins trooping out of the Great Hall. I can't resent them for it, not even Parkinson, though I was perfectly willing to take her down if she had tried to hurt Harry.

"Ravenclaw, follow on!" McGonagall cries.

Slowly, the four tables empty. The Slytherin table is completely deserted, but a number of older Ravenclaws had remained seated while their fellows filed out; even more Hufflepuffs stayed behind, and half of Gryffindor remained in their seats, forcing McGonagall to descend from the teacher's platform to send the underage students on their way.

"Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!"

Harry turns to me. "Thanks for - "

"Don't say thank you," I say impatiently. "It was the only thing to do."

Harry seems to struggle with himself for a moment, before nodding and saying, "Shouldn't Ron and Hermione be back by now? I mean, if Ron couldn't get into the Chamber then they should've turned back, and if they got in alright, then how long does it take to pick up a couple of Basilisk fangs?"

I shake my head, just as confused and as worried as he is. "Ron and Hermione know what they're doing - or, at the very least, Hermione almost always does, and this was Ron's idea  _and_ he's been down there before, so he should know. Let's give them more time. If they're not back in an hour, we go looking, yeah?"

He doesn't look very comforted (I'm not, either), but he nods. I tilt my head in the direction of the Weasleys, all sitting at the Gryffindor table, and we make our way to them, just as Kingsley steps to the raised platform to address those who have remained behind.

"We've only got half an hour until midnight, so we need to act fast. A battle plan has been agreed on between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers - Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and Gryffindor - where they'll have good overview, excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile, Remus - " he indicates Remus - "Arthur - " he points at Mr. Weasley, sitting at the Gryffindor table - "and I will take groups into the grounds. We'll need somebody to organise defence of the entrances or the passageways into the school - "

"Sounds like a job for us," Fred says, pausing in letting go of my hand long enough to indicate himself and George. Kingsley nods his approval.

"Alright, leaders up here and we'll divide the troops!"

Fred kisses my hand quickly, then my forehead, murmuring an 'I love you' before he goes to join the other leaders up at the raised platform.

"Potter," says Professor McGonagall, hurrying up to him, as students flood the platform, jostling for a position, receiving instructions. "Aren't you supposed to be looking for something?"

"What?" Harry says. "Oh - oh, yeah!"

Admittedly, in all the chaos, I had almost forgotten about the Horcrux, almost forgotten that the entire reason this battle was being fought was so that we could find it.

"Then go, Potter, go!"

"Right - yeah - "

I go to follow Harry out of the Great Hall, but Professor McGonagall calls, "Knight?"

I whip around to face her, raising my eyebrows in interest. "Yes, Professor?"

She's silent for a moment, before finally saying, "It's good to see you in one piece."

At first, I'm surprised; then, a grin slowly crosses my face and I nod at her, saying, "Good to see you, too, Professor."

I can sense eyes following Harry and I as we run out of the Great Hall, into the Entrance Hall, still crowded with evacuating students. We allow ourselves to be swept up the marble staircase with them, but at the top we hurry off along a deserted corridor.

"Right," I say, letting out a sigh and running a hand through my hair. "Did going to Ravenclaw tower help at all? Did you figure anything out? Harry?"

I look round at him when he doesn't respond, and find him leaning against the wall, his head in his hands, breathing heavily. I know immediately that he's panicking. I'm having a hard time staying calm myself; if he loses it, I will, too.

"Harry," I say, walking forward and grabbing him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at me. "Harry, stay calm. Stay focused. I know a lot's going on, and I know this is turning into a full on battle when we only wanted to be in and out, and I know that you're worried about Ron and Hermione - I am, too - but you need to stay calm and keep a clear head. Look at me - Harry, look at me. Look around you. Focus on what's in front of us, nothing else, okay? Deep breaths, just stay focused."

Harry's silent for a moment. He looks at me, then around at the deserted corridor, then back at me. He takes a deep breath, before exhaling and sitting down on the plinth of a departed statue (McGonagall has brought the statues of Hogwarts to life and charged them with the task of protecting the school, which I have to admit is pretty wicked). For a moment, we're both silent, and Harry puts his face in his hands again.

"Voldemort thought I'd go to Ravenclaw tower."

I look at Harry in interest at the statement.

"He knew?"

Harry nods. "Alecto Carrow had been stationed at the Ravenclaw common room. That can't be a coincidence."

Something about saying this, saying solid facts out loud, seems to be helping him. Even I'm comforted by the fact that we have some place, a solid base, to start.

"Okay," I say. "Which means he knows we've figured out that the Horcrux is associated with that House."

Harry shakes his head, brow furrowed. "This still doesn't make sense. The only thing people associate with Ravenclaw is the diadem, but it's  _lost_. How could it be the Horcrux? How could Voldemort - a Slytherin - have found it when Ravenclaws haven't been able to find it for generations? Who would've told him where to look or how to find it if nobody in living memory has seen it?"

I frown and shake my head, just as lost as he is. We're both silent for a time, thinking this over, until it dawns on me.

_Nobody in living memory..._

I look over at Harry just as he looks at me. For a moment, we stare at each other, wide-eyed, and I know immediately that he's thinking the same thing as me.

"Hazel..."

"You don't think - ?"

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?"

And immediately, we're both leaping to our feet and racing down the corridor the way we'd come. The sounds of hundreds of people marching towards the Room of Requirement grows louder and louder as we return to the marble stairs. Prefects are shouting instructions, trying to keep track of the students in their own Houses. There's a lot of pushing and shoving; I see Zacharias Smith bowling over first years to get to the front of the queue, here and there are younger students in tears, while older ones call out desperately for friends or siblings.

We catch sight of the pearly white figure drifting across the Entrance Hall below and Harry yells out as loudly as he can to be heard over all of the chaos.

"Nick! NICK! We need to talk to you!"

We force our way through the tide of students, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, where Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor tower, stands waiting for us.

"Harry! Hazel! It's good to see you, you're both far too young for death."

Nick makes to shake both of our hands with his own, giving me the sensation that my hands have been thrust into icy water.

"Nick, you've got to help us," Harry says. "Who's the ghost of Ravenclaw tower?"

Nearly Headless Nick looks surprised and a little offended.

"The Grey Lady, of course; but if it is ghostly services that you require..."

"Thanks, Sir Nicholas, but it's got to be her," I reply. "D'you know where we can find her?"

"Let's see..."

Nick's head wobbles a little on his ruff as he turns hither and thither, peering over the heads of swarming students.

"That's here over there, you two, the young woman with the long hair."

Harry and I look in the direction of Nick's long, transparent, pointed finger and see a tall ghost catch sight of us looking at her, raises her eyebrows, and drifts away through a solid wall.

Harry and I glance at each other, and then chase after her. Once through the door of the corridor into which she had disappeared, we can see her at the very end of the passage, still gliding smoothly away from us.

"Hey - wait - come back!"

She consents to pause, floating a few inches above the ground. Looking at her more closely now, I realise that she's quite beautiful, with her waist-length hair and floor-length cloak. She has a haughty, proud look about her, too. She's a ghost I've passed several times in the corridor before, but never spoken to, never really properly looked at until now.

"You're the Grey Lady?" Harry asks. She nods but does not speak.

"The ghost of Ravenclaw tower?"

"That is correct."

Her tone is not overly encouraging. I press forward, anyway.

"Please, we - we really need your help. We want to know if you can tell us about the lost diadem."

A cold smile curves her lips.

"I am afraid," she says, turning to leave, "that I cannot help you."

"WAIT!"

It comes out as a shout, and I'm sure Harry hadn't really meant it, but it's already quarter to midnight. We're running out of time fast. It's easy to get panicked.

"This is urgent," Harry says fiercely. "If that diadem's here at Hogwarts, then we've got to find it, fast."

"You are hardly the first students to covet the diadem," she says disdainfully. "Generations of students have badgered me - "

"This isn't about trying to get better marks!" Harry shouts. "It's about Voldemort - about defeating Voldemort - or aren't you interested in that?"

Ghosts can't blush, but the Grey Lady's cheeks become more opaque and her voice is heated as she replies, "Of course I - how dare you suggest - ?"

"Help us, then!" I say.

She's losing her composure fast.

"It - it is not a question of - " she stammers. "My mother's diadem - "

"Your mother's?" I say in interest.

She looks angry with herself.

"When I lived," she says stiffly, "I was Helena Ravenclaw."

"You're her daughter?" Harry says. "Well, then, you must know what happened to it."

"While the diadem bestows wisdom," the Grey Lady says, in an obvious attempt to pull herself together, "I am doubtful it would increase your chances of defeating the wizard who calls himself Lord - "

"We've got no interest in wearing it! Look, we haven't got time to explain, but if - if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see Voldemort defeated, then you need to tell us everything you know about that diadem!"

She remains quite still, floating in midair, staring us down, and I can't help but feel hopeless. Suddenly, this all feels stupid. If she had known anything, surely she would've told Flitwick or Dumbledore, there's no way neither of them had never approached her about the subject. Harry and I exchange looks, defeated. We're about to turn away when she speaks in a low voice.

"I stole the diadem from my mother."

"You - you did what?"

"I stole the diadem," Helena Ravenclaw repeats in a whisper. "I sought to make myself cleverer, more important than my mother. I ran away with it."

I have no idea how we managed to gain her trust, but I don't question it, and neither does Harry. We simply listen hard as she continues.

"My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem was gone, but pretended she had it still. She concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even from the other founds of Hogwarts.

"Then my mother fell ill - fatally ill. In spite of my treachery, my mother was desperate to see me one more time. She sent a man who had long loved me, though I spurned his advances, to find me. She knew that he would not rest until he had done so."

Harry and I wait. She draws a deep breath and throws back her head.

"He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding. When I refused to return with him, he became violent. The Baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me."

"The Baron?" I repeat, stunned. "You mean - ?"

"The Bloody Baron, yes," she confirms, and she lifts aside her cloak to reveal a single dark wound on her chest.

"When he saw what he had done, he was overcome with remorse. He took the weapon that had claimed my life and used it to kill himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains as an act of penance... as he should," she adds bitterly.

"And - and the diadem?"

"It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the Baron blundering through the forest toward me. Concealed inside a hollow tree."

"A hollow tree?" repeats Harry. "What tree? Where is this?"

"A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far beyond my mother's reach."

"Albania," Harry repeats, and suddenly everything is making sense, and I understand why she's telling him what she had never told Flitwick of Dumbledore. "You already told someone this story, didn't you? Another student?"

She closes her eyes and nods.

"I had... no idea... he was flattering. He seemed... to understand... to sympathise."

 _Yes_ , I think, all of this becoming clearer and clearer in my head.  _Tom Riddle, of all people, would understand Helena Ravenclaw's desire to possess fabulous objects to which she has little right._

"Well, you weren't the first thing Riddle wormed things out of," Harry murmurs. "He could be charming when he wanted."

So, Voldemort had managed to wheedle the location of the diadem out of the Grey Lady. He had travelled to the far-flung forest and retrieved it from its hiding place, possibly as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts, before he had even started working at Borgin and Burkes.

And those secluded Albanian woods probably seemed like an excellent refuge, much later, when Voldemort would need a place to lie low, undisturbed, for ten years...

But the diadem, once it became a precious Horcrux, could not be left in those woods... no, instead, Voldemort returned it to its true home, and he had probably done it - 

" - the night he asked for a job!" Harry says, finishing my thought for me.

"I beg your pardon?" says the Grey Lady.

"He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked Dumbledore to teach!" Harry says. "He must've hidden the diadem on his way up to, or his way down from, Dumbledore's office! But it was well worth trying to get the job - then he might've got the change to nick Gryffindor's sword, as well - thank you, thanks!"

And Harry and I leave her there, floating midair and looking utterly bewildered. As we round the corner back into the Entrance Hall, I check my watch; there's only five minutes left until midnight, and though we know what the Horcrux is, we're still no nearer to figuring out where to find it.

Generations of students have failed to find the diadem, which must mean it's nowhere in Ravenclaw tower - but if not there, then where? What secret hiding place had Voldemort found inside Hogwarts castle that he believed would remain secret forever?

Lost in desperate speculation, we turn a corner, but we've only taken a few steps when the window to our left breaks open with a deafening, shattering crash. As we leap aside, a gigantic body flies through the window and hits the opposite wall.

Something large and furry detached itself, whimpering, from the new arrival and flings itself at Harry and I.

"Hagrid!" Harry and I shout in unison, fighting off Fang the boarhound's attentions in turn as the enormous bearded figure clambers to his feet. "What the - ?"

"Yer here! Yer here!"

Hagrid stoops down, bestowing upon Harry and cursory and rib-cracking hug.

"An' yeh, Hazel! Blimey, yeh gave me a righ' scare!"

He pulls me into an equally tight hug, then runs back to the shattered window.

"Goodbye, Grawpy!" he bellows through the hole in the window. "I'll see yeh in a minute, there's a good lad!"

Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, I can see bursts of light in the distance and hear a weird, keening scream. I look down at my watch and find that it's midnight. The battle has begun.

"Blimey, yeh two," Hagrid pants, "this is it, eh? Time ter fight?"

"Hagrid, where have you come from?"

"Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave," Hagrid replies grimly. "Voice carried, didn't it? 'Yeh got 'til midnight ter gimme Potter.' Knew yeh must be here, knew that must be happenin'. Get down, Fang. So we came ter join in, me an' Grawpy an' Fang. Smashed our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy was carryin' us, Fang an' me. Told him to let me down at the castle, so he shoved me through the window, bless him. Not exactly what I meant, bu' - where's Ron an' Hermione?"

Harry and I exchange looks.

"Extended bathroom break," I tell Hagrid. "Come on."

We hurry along down the corridor, Fang lolloping around beside us. I can hear movement in the corridors all around; running footsteps, shouts. Through the windows, I can see more flashes of light in the dark grounds.

"Where're we goin'?" Hagrid puffs, pounding along aside Harry and I, making the floorboards quake.

"It's good to keep moving at times like this," I reply vaguely as we turn a corner.

The first casualties of the battle are strewn across the passage ahead. The two stone gargoyles that usually guard the entrance to the staff room have been smashed apart by a jinx that had sailed through another broken window. Their remains stir feebly on the floor, and as we leap over their disembodied heads, they moan, "Oh, don't mind me... I'll just lay here and crumble..."

As we reach the end of the passage, Harry stops so suddenly that he nearly stumbles and falls over. I slow to a stop, nearly slipping and falling myself, turning to face Harry, as does Hagrid.

"Harry, what the - ?" I begin.

I'm cut off my the appearance of Professor Sprout, who's thundering past, followed by Neville and half a dozen others, all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying what appears to be large potted plants.

"Mandrakes!" Neville bellows at us over his shoulder as he runs. "Going to lob them over the walls - they won't like this!"

"Well, that's - " I begin, but before I can finish, Harry's grabbing my wrist and is dragging me with him as he speeds off down the corridor, Hagrid and Fang galloping behind us. We pass portrait after portrait, and the painted figures race alongside us, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in armour and cloaks, cramming themselves into each others' canvases, screaming news from other parts of the castle. As we reach the end of the corridor, the whole passage shakes, and I know immediately, as a gigantic vase blows off its plinth with explosive force, that it's from enchantments far more sinister than those of the teachers and the Order.

"It's alrigh', Fang, it's alrigh'," Hagrid yells, but the great boarhound takes flight as slivers of china flies like shrapnel in the air, and Hagrid pounds after the terrified dog, leaving Harry and I alone.

We forge through trembling passages, our wands at the ready, and for the length of one corridor, the little painted knight, Sir Cardogan, rushes from painting to painting beside us, clanking along his armour, screaming encouragement, his fat little pony cantering behind him.

"Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive them out, Harry Potter, see them off! You too, Hazel Knight - put yourself to some use, live up to your last name!"

I roll my eyes. Time has not done much to aid to the mutual dislike between the old knight and myself.

"Harry, are we still - what - what's going on?" I ask him, as we continue running.

"Room of Requirement," Harry pants, "the Horcrux is in the Room of Requirement - I've seen it before."

" _What?_ " I say, stunned. "Explain. Now, please."

"I've seen it, when I was hiding the Half-Blood Prince's textbook so Snape wouldn't find out I had it... I hid it under a statue of some warlock and I put a wig and this old tiara on it... at least, I thought it was just a tiara, but it was - "

"The diadem? You really think so, Harry?"

"I'm certain of it," Harry replies, as we duck under a hex that goes soaring through a broken window. "Old Tom Riddle was probably arrogant enough to think that he was the only one that knew about the Room of Requirement, he probably thought no one would ever find it there."

As his words sink in, excitement courses through me with the heat of firewhiskey. It makes sense. The night Voldemort requested a job from Dumbledore, the night he hid the diadem in Hogwarts... where better to hide it than in the room that stays hidden except to the few who knows its secrets?

I speed up running with renewed energy, and Harry and I hurtle around a corner to find Fred, Lee, and a small knot of students, Hannah Abott, standing beside another empty plinth, whose statue had concealed a secret passageway. Their wands are drawn and they're listening at the concealed hole.

"Nice night for it!" shouts Fred as the castle quakes again, and Harry and I sprint by, elated and terrified in equal measure.

Along yet another corridor we dash, and then there are owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris is hissing and trying to bat them with her paws, no doubt trying to return them to their proper place...

"Potter! Knight!" Aberforth Dumbledore stands blocking the corridor ahead, his wand held at the ready. "I've had hundreds of kids thundering through my pub, you two!"

"I know, we're evacuating," Harry replies. "Voldemort's - "

" - attacking because they haven't handed you over, yeah, I know," Aberforth replies. "I'm not deaf, he was heard all over Hogsmeade. And it never occurred to any of you to keep a few Slytherins hostage? There are kids of Death Eaters you just sent to safety. Wouldn't it have been smarter to keep 'em here?"

"It wouldn't stop Voldemort," Harry replies immediately. "And your brother would never have done it."

Aberforth grunts and tears away in another direction. Harry and I begin running, as I think that over. Harry's not wrong, of course... Dumbledore, for all his faults and his secrets, would never hold students hostage just to have a bit more leverage in a battle...

And then we skid around a final corner, and with a cry of relief, we finally see Ron and Hermione. Both of their arms are full of large, curved, dirty yellow objects, and Ron has a broomstick under his arms.

"About fucking time!" I say. "We were getting worried! What took so long?"

"It's a complicated process," Ron says, looking offended.

"It was Ron, all Ron's idea!" Hermione is telling Harry breathlessly. "Was't it brilliant? There we were, after you left, and Ron points out that all of this is useless if we have no way of destroying the Horcruxes, and then he thought of it! The Basilisk!"

"Yeah, I know," Harry says, just as I register that the objects Ron and Hermione are clutching in their arms are great, curved fangs torn from the skull of a dead basilisk. Harry looks at Ron. "Hazel told me. So you managed to speak Parseltongue?"

Ron makes the same horrible, strangled hissing noise that he had made earlier.

"It's not speaking it so much as just copying the sounds you made to open the locket," Ron explains sheepishly. "It took me a couple of tries to get it right, but," he shrugs modestly, "we got there in the end."

"He was amazing!" Hermione says. "Amazing!"

"So, we're another Horcrux down," Ron continues, and from his jacket pocket he pulls the mangled remains of Hufflepuff's Cup. "Hermione stabbed it. Thought she should. She hasn't had the pleasure yet."

"Genius!" yells Harry.

"It was nothing," Ron says, though he looks delighted with himself. "So, what's new with you?"

As he says it, there's an explosion from overhead. All four of us look up as dust falls from the ceiling and we can hear a distant scream.

"I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where it is," Harry says, talking fast. "He hid it exactly where I hid my old Potions book, where everyone's been hiding their stuff for centuries. He thought he was the only one to find it. Come on." As the walls tremble again, he leads us back through the concealed entrance and down the staircase into the Room of Requirement. It's empty except for three women: Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly woman wearing a moth-eaten hat, who I recognise immediately as Neville's grandmother.

"Ah, Potter," she says crisply, as if she'd been waiting for him. "You can tell us what's going on?"

"Has anyone been hurt?" Ginny and Tonks ask together.

"Not as far as we know," Harry replies. "Are there still people in the passage to the Hog's Head?"

An important question, as we can't get the room to transform while there are still people inside it.

"I was the last to come through," Mrs. Longbottom answers. "I sealed it. I thought it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?"

"He's fighting," I reply.

"Naturally," says the old woman proudly. "Excuse me, I must go and assist him."

With surprising speed, she trots off towards the stone steps.

I look over at Tonks and say, frowning slightly, "Remus said you were at your mother's with Teddy."

"I couldn't stand not knowing," Tonks admits, looking anguished. "She'll look after him... have you seen him? Remus, I mean?"

"He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds - "

Without a word, Tonks speeds off.

Harry turns to Ginny, saying, "Ginny, I'm sorry, but we need you to leave, too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in."

I shake my head silently, but I already know perfectly well that Ginny is not coming back in after we're done. Ginny looks delighted to be leaving her sanctuary.

"And then you can come back in!" he shouts after her as she runs up the steps after Tonks. "You've got to come back in!"

"Hang on a minute," Ron says sharply. "We've forgotten someone."

"Who?" Hermione asks.

"The house-elves," he replies. "They'll all be down in the kitchens, won't they?"

"What, you reckon we ought to make them fight?" I ask sharply, not really fancying the idea.

"No," Ron says, very seriously. "I mean we should tell them all to get out. We don't want any more like Dobby, do we? We can't order them to die for us - "

There's a clatter as the Basilisk fangs cascade out of Hermione's arms. Running at Ron, she flings her arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth. Ron throws away the fangs and the broomstick he's holding and responds with so much enthusiasm that he lefts her off her feet.

"Oh," I say, as Harry and I are left to watch them rather awkwardly. "Well, this is - this - this was a long time coming. Can't really say I'm surprised."

"Is this the moment?" Harry says weakly, and when nothing happens except that Ron and Hermione grip onto each other more firmly and sway on the spot, he raises his voice. "Oi! There's a war going on here!"

Ron and Hermione break apart, their arms still around each other.

"I know, mate," Ron says, looking like he's recently been hit on the back of the head with a Bludger, "so it's now or never, isn't it?"

"Never mind that, what about the Horcrux?" Harry demands. "D'you think you could just - just hold it in until we've got the diadem?"

"Yeah - right - sorry - " Ron says, and he and Hermione both set about gathering the fangs, looking thoroughly embarrassed. I bite back a smirk with immense difficulty.

It's clear, as the four of us step back into the corridor upstairs, that in the minutes we spent in the Room of Requirement the situation within the castle has deteriorated severely. The walls and ceiling are shaking worse than ever, dust fills the air, and in the nearest window, I see bursts of red and green light so close to the foot of the castle that I know the Death Eaters must be very near to entering the place. Looking down, I see Grawp the giant meandering past, swinging what looks like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and roaring his displeasure.

"Let's hope he steps on some of them!" Ron shouts as more screams echo from nearby.

"As long as it's not any of our lot!" says a voice.

I turn and see Ginny and Tonks, both with their wands drawn at the next window, which is missing several panes. Even as I watch, Ginny sends a well-aimed jinx into a crowd of Death Eaters below.

"Good girl!" roars a figure running through the dust towards us, and I see Aberforth again, his grey hair flying as he leads a small group of students past. "They look like they might be breaching the north battlements, they've brought giants of their own."

"Have you seen Remus?" Tonks calls after him.

"He was duelling Dolohov," Aberforth replies, "haven't seen him since!"

"Tonks," Ginny says, as my heart drops to the region of my stomach. "Tonks, I'm sure he's okay - "

But Tonks has run into the dust after Aberforth, and it takes all the self-restraint in the world not to run after her. Harry grabs onto my arm as Ginny turns to look at the four of us helplessly.

"They'll be alright," Harry says, mainly to me, though he must know those are empty words at a time like this. He turns to Ginny. "Ginny, we'll be back in a moment, just keep out of the way, keep safe - come on!" he says to Ron, Hermione, and I, and we run back to the stretch of wall beyond which the Room of Requirement is waiting to do the bidding of the next entrant.

 _I need the place where everything is hidden_ , I think carefully, as we walk up and down the stretch of wall, and the door materialises on our third walk past.

The furore of the battle seems to die the moment we cross the threshold and close the door behind us. All is silent. We're in a place the size of a cathedral with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built by thousands of objects hidden by long-gone students.

"And he never realised anyone can get in?" Ron says, his voice echoing in the silence.

"He thought he was the only one," Harry replies. "Too bad for him I've had to hide stuff in my time... this way," he adds. "I think it's down here..."

We speed up off adjacent aisles. I can hear the other's footsteps echoing through the towering piles of junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, broomsticks, bats... I take it all in as carefully as I can while still being efficient, desperate to find the ancient, discoloured tiara, sitting on a gargoyle's head somewhere. Deeper into the labyrinth I go, trying to find anything that matches the description Harry gave me, my breath loud in my ears, unable to escape the feeling that I'm being watched in this too-silent maze of a room.

Several times, I see something that I think might be the diadem, only to realise upon closer inspection that it's only a trick of the light or my mind wanting me to see something isn't really there. Fighting off frustration and hopelessness, I realise suddenly that I can no longer see or hear Harry, Ron, and Hermione at all. Deciding to find them again where the four of us can reassess how to go about finding the Horcrux, I turn back around and try to retrace my steps. However, retracing my steps turns out to be harder than I expected, and soon I'm more lost than ever.

I raise my wand and murmur, "Point me."

I follow as my wand points me in the right direction, making twists and turns through the labyrinth of forgotten objects. I'm starting to wonder if the spell is helping at all when I hear faint footsteps in the distance. I freeze, standing up straighter and straining my ears for the source of the noise. Then, I take off running towards the source of the noise, only stopping when I see a flash of dark hair a few feet to my left.

"Harry!"

Harry whips around, tensing up, before recognising me and running to meet me in the middle.

"Merlin, it's easy to get lost in here," I say, putting my hands on my hips. "You have any idea where Ron and Hermione are? I've had no luck finding this bloody diadem, I think we might need to - "

"Hazel," he says, cutting me off, " _look._ "

My eyes follow where he's pointing to find a blistered old cupboard. On top of it is a pockmarked warlock wearing, I realise with a jolt, a dusty old wig and an ancient, discoloured tiara. I stare at what must be Ravenclaw's diadem, before looking over at Harry, wide-eyed.

"That's it, then? That's the diadem?"

Harry nods slowly. We walk towards the diadem carefully, as though one wrong move could make everything fall apart. Harry stretches out a hand, though we're still a few feet away, when a voice behind us says, "Hold it."

Harry and I freeze. For a moment, we just stare at each other, before whipping around. Crabbe and Goyle are standing there, shoulder to shoulder, pointing their wands at us. Through the small space between their jeering faces, I can see Draco Malfoy.

"That's my wand you're holding, Potter," Malfoy says, pointing his one through the gap between Crabbe and Goyle.

"Not anymore," Harry pants, as we both tighten our grip on our wands. "Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who lent you theirs?"

"My mother," Draco replies.

Harry laughs, though there's nothing particularly funny about the situation. I still can't hear any sign of Ron and Hermione; who knows how far away they've gone by this point.

"So who come you three aren't with Voldemort?" I say, almost conversationally, trying to bide time.

"We're gonna be rewarded," says Crabbe, like a small child who was promised a bag of sweets, and with a jolt I realise I've never heard him speak before. His voice is surprisingly soft for such an enormous person. "We 'ung back. We decided not to go. We're gonna bring you to 'im, Potter. And you too, Knight, if you try to get in our way. I'm sure he wants yo dead, too."

"Good plan," Harry says in mock admiration. I can't help but feel irritated. I refuse to have come all this way just to finally be thwarted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Harry and I begin edging slowly, gradually backward to where the Horcrux sits lopsided on the bust; Harry and I have a good chance of winning in a fight with the three of them, but one of us needs to at least get our hands on the diadem before the fight breaks out...

"So how did you get in here?" Harry asks, distracting them.

"I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things last year," Malfoy replies, his voice brittle. "I know how to get in."

"We was hiding in the corridor outside," Goyle grunts. "We can do Disslusion Charms now! And then," his face splits into a gormless grin, "you turned up right in front of us and said you was looking for a die-dum. What's a die-dum?"

"Harry? Hazel?" Ron's voice echoes suddenly from the other side of the wall to our right. "Are you talking to someone?"

With a whiplike movement, Crabbe points his wand at the fifty foot mountain of old furniture, of broken trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable junk, and yells, "Descendo!"

The wall begins to totter, then the top third crumbles into the aisle where Ron stands.

"Ron!" Harry and I bellow, as somewhere out of sight Hermione screams, and innumerable objects crash to the floor on the other side of the destabilised wall. I point my want at the rampart, crying out, " _Finite!_ " and it steadies again.

"No!" Malfoy shouts, grabbing Crabbe's arm as he makes to repeat the spell. "If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!"

"What's that matter?" Crabbe says, tugging himself free. "It's Potter that the Dark Lord wands, who cares about a die-dum?"

"They came in here to get it," Malfoy says, with ill-disguised impatience at the slow-wittedness of his friends, "which must mean - "

"'Must mean'?" Crabbe turns on Malfoy with undisguised ferocity. "Who cares what you think? I don't take orders from you no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished."

"Harry? Hazel?" Ron shouts again, from the other side of the junk wall. "What's going on?"

"Harry? Hazel?" Crabbe mimics him mockingly. "What's going on - no, Potter!  _Crucio!_ "

Harry had tried to dive for the diadem. Crabbe's curse misses Harry but hits the stone bust, which flies into the air. The diadem soars upwards and drops out of sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had rested. Furious, I turn to Crabbe with my wand raised, but Malfoy rounds on his first.

"STOP!" Malfoy shouts at him, his voice echoing through the enormous room. "The Dark Lord wands him alive - "

"So? I'm not killing him, am I?" Crabbe says, throwing himself off Malfoy's restraining grip. "But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wands him dead anyway, what's the diff - ?"

A jet of scarlet light shoots past me by inches. Hermione had run around the corner behind Harry and I and shot a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe's head. It misses only because Malfoy pulls him out of the way in time.

"It's that Mudblood!  _Avada Kedavra!_ "

I see Hermione dive aside just in time, and my anger that Crabbe had aimed to kill wipes everything else from my mind momentarily. Harry shoots a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurches out of the way, knocking Malfoy's wand out of his hand. It rolls out of sight beneath a mountain of broken furniture and bones.

"Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" Malfoy yells at Crabbe and Goyle, who are both aiming at Harry. The split second of hesitation from the two of them is all I need.

"Expelliarmus!"

Goyle's wand flies out of his hand and disappears into the bulwark of objects beside him. Goyle leaps foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; Malfoy jumps out of range of Hermione's second Stunning Spell, and Ron, suddenly appearing at the end of the aisle, shoots a Full-Body Bind Curse at Crabbe, which narrowly misses.

"Avada Kedavra!" Crabbe screams, wheeling around and pointing his wand at Ron, who jumps out of the way of the green light. A wand-less Malfoy cowers behind a three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charges towards them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning Spell as she comes.

"It's somewhere here!" Harry yells at Hermione and I, pointing at the pile of junk into which the old tiara had fallen. "Look for it while I go and help R - "

"HARRY! HAZEL!  _LOOK!_ " Hermione screams.

A roaring, billowing noise behind Harry and I gives us a moment's warning. We turn to see both Ron and Crabbe running as hard as they can up the aisle.

"Like it hot, scum?" Crabbe roars as he runs, but he seems to have no control over what he's done. Flames of abnormal size are pursuing them, licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which are crumbling to soot at their touch.

"Auguamenti!" Harry cries, pointing his wand at the flames, but the jet of water that bursts from his wand seems to evaporate into the air.

I summon a wave of water, directing it at the flames but just like the water Harry shot from his wand, it seems to evaporate into thin air, having no effect on the fire. I blink, then summon another wave, bigger and stronger than the last, directing it at the fire with all my might. Again, the water just evaporates and the flames remain as strong as ever. I attempt to blast the fire out of the way, but that has no lasting effect, either, the flames coming back seemingly larger and hotter than every.

"Right then," I say. "RUN!"

Malfoy grabs the stunned Goyle and drags him along; Crabbe outruns all of us, looking terrified at his own actions; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all pelt along in his wake, the fire pursuing us. It's clearly not a normal fire; Crabbe has used some sort of curse of which I have no knowledge. As we turn a corner, the flames chase them as though they're alive, sentient, determined to kill us all. Now the fire is mutating, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts; flaming serpents, chimeras, and dragons rise and fall and rise again, and the trinkets of centuries on which they're feeding is thrown up into the air and into their fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before being consumed on the seemingly limitless inferno.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle have vanished from view. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stop dead. The fiery monsters are circling us, drawing closer and closer, claws and horns and tails lashed, and the heat is a solid wall around us.

"What can we do?" Hermione screams over the deafening roars of the fire, as I try to blast the flames away from us; the effect never lasts, but it's enough to buy us more time. "What can we do?"

"Here!"

Harry seizes a pair of heavy-looking broomsticks from the nearest pile of junk and throws one to Ron, who pulls Hermione onto it behind him. Harry tosses me a second broom, which I swing onto with ease. Harry swings his leg over the last broom. With hard kicks to the ground, we soar up into the air, missing by a mere few feet the horned beak of a flaming raptor that snaps its jaws at us. The smoke and the heat are rapidly becoming overwhelming. Below us, the cursed fire is consuming the contraband of generations of students, the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned experiments, the secrets of the countless souls who had sought refuge in the room. I can't see any trace of Malfoy, Crabbe, or Goyle anywhere. I swoop as low as I dare over the marauding monsters of flame in an attempt to find them, but there's nothing but fire.

 _What an awful way to die,_ I can't help but think.  _This was never supposed to happen..._

"Come on, let's get out, let's get out!" Ron yells, though it's impossible to see where the door is through the thick black smoke.

Then I hear it: the thin, piteous human scream among the terrible commotion, the thunder of devouring flame.

"It's - too - dangerous - " Ron yells, but one shared look with Harry tells me there's nothing else to be done. We wheel around in the air, the smoke stinging my eyes painfully. Our eyes rake the firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face that isn't charred like wood...

Harry finds them first. I see them after; Malfoy with his arms around the unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a fragile tower of charred desks. Harry dives. Malfoy sees him coming and raises an arm, but even as Harry grasps it I can tell it's no good. Goyle is too heavy and Malfoy's hand slides almost instantly out of Harry's.

"Oh, if we die for them, they won't have a moment of peace in the afterlife," I murmur, and dive down to meet them, dragging Goyle onto my broom, allowing him to slump against me limply. I rise once again, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Malfoy clambers up behind Harry on the broom.

I make sure Goyle is secure where he is behind me, before taking off, struggling to follow Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy through the billowing black smoke, hardly able to breathe. All around us, the last few objects left unburnt by the devouring flames are being flung into the air as the creatures of the cursed fire cast them high in celebration; cups and shields, a sparkling necklace, and an old, discoloured tiara...

I don't even stop to think, taking a hairpin swerve and diving. The diadem seems to fall in slow motion, turning and glittering as it drops towards the maw of a yawning serpent. I speed up just slightly, dangerously close to the flames, and then I have it, catching the diadem around my wrist.

I swerve again just as the serpent lunges at me. I soar upwards and straight toward the place where, I pray, the door stands open; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy are nowhere to be found. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Goyle had woken up and is screaming and holding one me so tightly it hurts.

"DOOR, DOOR, DOOR!" he yells.

"YEAH, I'M WORKING ON IT, DICKHEAD!" I reply irritably.

Then, though the smoke, I see a rectangular patch on the wall and steer the broom at it, and moments later, clean air fills my lungs and we collide with the wall in the corridor beyond.

Goyle falls off the broom and lies face down, gasping, coughing, and retching. I roll over and sit up, assessing the situation. The door to the Room of Requirement has vanished. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy are scattered across the floor, panting.

"C-Crabbe," Malfoy chokes as soon as he can speak. "C-Crabbe..."

"He's dead," says Ron harshly.

There's silent, apart from panting and coughing. Then a number of huge bangs shake the castle and a great cavalcade of transparent figures gallop past on horses, their heads screaming with bloodlust under their arms. I stagger to my feet unsteadily at the same moment as Harry, while the Headless Hunt passes, looking around. The battle is still going on all around us; it's easy to forget about the outside world after too much time in the Room of Requirement. I can hear more screams than just those of the retreating ghosts. Fighting down panic is difficult.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry says sharply. "She was here. She was supposed to go back into the Room of Requirement."

"Blimey, d'you reckon it'll still work after that fire?" Ron asks, but he too gets to his feet, rubbing his chest and looking left and right. "Shall we split up and look - "

"No," Hermione says, getting to her feet too. Malfoy and Goyle remain slumped hopelessly on the corridor floor; neither of them have wands. "Let's stick together. I saw we go - Hazel, what's that on your arm?"

"What? Oh - oh, yeah..."

I had forgotten about the Horcrux. I pull the diadem from my wrist and hold it up. It's still hot, blackened with soot, but as I look at it closely, I'm just able to make out the tiny words etched upon it; WIT BEYOND MEASURE IS MAN'S GREATEST TREASURE.

I stretch out my other hand, saying, "Give me one of those Basilisk fangs."

"Why?" Hermione says uneasily, but is already pulling out a fang from her beaded bag.

I grin at her, just slightly, as I take the fang from her. "You've all had a go at it. I reckon I deserve a turn."

I hold the Basilisk fang over the diadem. For a moment, I'm still, holding my breath, tightening my grip on the fang; then I drive the fang down, stabbing the diadem right through. At first, nothing happens, until a bloodlike substance, dark and tarry, seems to leak from the diadem. Suddenly, I can feel the thing vibrate violently, then break apart in my hands, and as I does, I can almost hear the faintest, most distant scream of pain, echoing not from the grounds or the castle, but the thing that just fragmented in my fingers.


	41. The Shrieking Shack

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Forty-One: The Shrieking Shack**

 

For a moment, we're all silent, staring at the broken pieces of the diadem in my hand. Finally, Hermione breaks it.

"You probably didn't have to do that," she says.

I look over at her, confused. "What?"

"Stab the Horcrux, I mean," she replies, her eyes on the broken piece. "That wasn't regular fire."

"Yeah, no kidding," Ron says weakly.

"It must have been Fiendfyre," Hermione says.

"Sorry?" says Harry.

"Fiendfyre - cursed fire - one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes."

I'm silent for a moment, thinking this over, before saying, "Don't ruin my moment, Hermione."

Hermione continues as normal. "I would never have dared use it, though, it's so dangerous - how did Crabbe know how to - ?"

"Must've learned from the Carrows," says Harry grimly.

"Shame he wasn't concentrating when they mentioned how to stop it, really," Ron says, whose hair, like all of ours, is singed, and whose face is blackened. "If he hadn't tried to kill us all, I'd be quite sorry he was dead."

"But don't you realise?" whispers Hermione. "This means, if we can just get the snake - "

But she breaks off as yells and shouts and the unmistakable noise of duelling fills the corridors. I look around and my stomach drops. The Death Eaters have penetrated Hogwarts. Fred and Percy have just backed into view, both of them duelling masked and hooded men.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I run forward to help; jets of light fly in every direction and the man duelling Percy backed off, fast; then his hood slips and we see a high forehead and streaked hair -

"Hello, Minister!" bellows Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who drops his wand and claws at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. "Did I mention I'm resigning?"

"You're joking, Perce!" Fred shouts as the Death Eater he was battling collapses under the weight of three separate Stunning Spells. Thicknesse has fallen to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him; he seems to be turning into some sort of sea urchin. Fred looks at Percy with glee.

"You actually are joking, Perce... I don't think I've heard you joke since you were - "

The air explodes. We were all grouped together; Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, Percy, and I, and the two Death Eaters at our feet, one Stunned, the other Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment, when danger seems temporarily at bay, the world is rent apart. I can feel myself flying through the air, and all I can do is hold as tightly as I can to the thin stick of wood that's my one weapon, shielding my head with my arms. I hear the screams and yells of my friends without a hope of knowing what might have happened to them -

And then the world resolves itself into pain and semidarkness. I'm buried in the wreckage of a corridor that has been subjected to a terrible attack. Cold air tells me that the side of the castle has been blown away, and the hot stickiness on my cheek tells me that I'm bleeding copiously. I hear a terrible cry that pulls at my insides, one that I know already that no flame or curse could cause, but I'm too buried under the wreckage to come to the surface and see for myself. I fight desperately to break free under the rubble, finally managing to resurface after a few minutes of struggling. The sound of the cry has become louder and I hesitate, too frightened of what I will find when I stand. Slowly, cautiously, I rise to my feet and look at the scene before me.

My heart stops dead.

Harry and Hermione are standing a few feet in front of me, clutching onto each other to stay upright. And in front of them, three redheaded men are grouped together on the floor. Percy and Ron are kneeling side by side, Percy shouting, "No - no! No! No, no, no!" over and over again, shaking a third figure, shaking -

Fred. Fred whose body was completely limp. Fred whose eyes were closed, the ghost of his laughter from minutes before still etched upon his face. Fred who is -

Except he cannot be. There is no way that he could be. If he was, then how could I still be here? How could the battle still be continuing? Why hadn't the entire castle fallen silent, every fighter lain down their arms, in horror of this irreversible damage they've done? If he was, why hadn't the sky fallen, the very earth collapsed upon itself?

Fred Weasley cannot be dead, cannot be gone. It's impossible. He's not the one that's supposed to die. Out of the two of us, I'm the one that's meant to die. Fred is meant to live. Fred is meant to survive, to thrive, no matter what the situation. Fred has to be alive, he has to be.

And yet there he is, lying still, silent, limp. I want to walk over to him, to touch him, to hold him, but I can't move, frozen in place. The battle, the world around me, seems to have faded away, and all I can see is him. I can't think straight, every heartbeat seems to hurt in my chest, as though it's not meant to work properly if his isn't. My head is pounding, my whole body feels heavy, as though the denial, the pain, the panic is seeping into my very bones.

"Fred," I say, so softly I'm not entirely sure if I'm just thinking it or not. "Fred, please."

"GET DOWN!" I can hear Harry shouting, as though a million miles away. He grabs my hand to pull me down to the floor, but I stay where I am. I'm aware, only vaguely, of a body falling past the hole blown into the side of the school, of curses flying in at us from the darkness, hitting the wall behind our heads. I can't bring myself to move, though, and no damage comes anywhere near me - only from within. It feels like everything is falling apart, as though I'm unravelling slowly but surely, as the world has been pulled from beneath my feet. Percy is lying across Fred's body, protecting him from further harm.

 _I need to get there,_ I think. _I need to get to him._

Slowly, I take a step forward, my legs feeling like lead. Then another. Then another.

 _Fred, Fred, Fred,_ I think. _Please, not you. It can't be you._

Hermione screams , but I don't look to see why. My eyes are still trained on Fred. It doesn't matter, though; Harry and Ron shout curses that seem to take care of the threat at hand. I'm halfway to him now. I stretch my hand out slowly, as though he might stretch his own hand out to meet me halfway. He always has, every single time. It can't be him, it can't be him, he can't be gone, death isn't meant for people like him. He can't be gone, he can't leave, he can't, he can't, he can't -

"It brought friends!" Harry is shouting, and I'm not sure what it is, but I'm drawing nearer to Fred; I can see the blood trickling down his forehead, can see all the freckles on his face, and for a second I remember a time a million years ago where I would count the freckles on his face and connect the dots with my fingers to make shapes and drawings. I need to get to him. I need to reach him, then everything will be alright. He'll come back, he'll be fine. The other option can't be happening. It can't be. "Hazel! HAZEL!"

Harry rushes forward and grabs me, pulling me back, stopping me from advancing. I try to shake him off, but he only tightens his grip on me, refusing to move or let go.

"Harry," I say shakily, my eyes still on Fred. "Let me go."

"Hazel, no," Harry says steadily, "I'm sorry, I can't let you do that - "

"Harry, let me go," I say again. "Let me go now."

"If you get to him, you won't leave him," Harry says. "You'd never leave him again, and we need to get out of here NOW!"

"Harry, please," I say, my voice cracking, my eyes stinging, an unbearable weight in my chest. "Please, let me see him. I need to know - is he alive? Is he alive, please, I love him, I love him, he can't be - is he alive?"

Somewhere along the way, I began to struggle harder against Harry's grip, and now I'm thrashing against him, trying to break free, trying to reach Fred.

"I don't know, Hazel, I don't know!" he says. "I don't know! But either way, he'd want you to do what you need to do, which is get out of here - "

"Please, please!" I say desperately. "Please, he can't be dead, he can't be, I'm the one that's supposed to die, not him, he's supposed to live - he can't be dead, he can't be, not him, please, no - Fred! FRED! PLEASE, FRED, PLEASE!"

"Hazel, we need to GO!" Harry says, starting to drag me away from him. "We need to get out of here! HERMIONE - Hermione, grab onto her!"

"Fred, FRED! PLEASE, PLEASE, FRED, PLEASE! FRED!" I say, hysterical at this point, but then Hermione is grabing onto me with an iron-tight grip, and she's pulling me away, away from the chaos, away from Fred. "LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GET TO HIM - DON'T TAKE ME FROM HIM, PLEASE - "

She pulls me behind a tapestry, yells for me to stay there, and is running away again. All the energy seems to have been drained from me. The noise of the battle seems to be miles away. I collapse against the wall. I can't remember how to breathe right, my breaths coming short and quick and ragged and uneven.

"Fred," I whisper softly, sinking to the floor. "Fred, Fred, Fred."

This is a joke. It's call a cruel joke being played on me. Fred cannot be dead. The mere idea of it is absurd, it's impossible. It's all a cruel joke. He's not dead. And yet now that he's no longer in my sight, it's hard to convince myself, hard to feel as though the world is not crashing in on me, overwhelming me, at the mere idea that I may never see him again.

But even Harry said he wasn't sure about what had happened to Fred. The panic, the fear, the sadness could all just be in the heat of the moment... there could be hope... and yet the distant sound of the raging battle makes it difficult to feel hope, and all I can think is that I should have kissed him longer, shoulder have hugged him harder, should have told him I loved him a million more times and years earlier.

Hermione bursts back behind the tapestry, pulling Ron along with her. They seem to be wrestling together; for one mad second I think they're kissed again; until I see that she's trying to restrain Ron. I stare blankly ahead of me as Harry joins us.

"Listen to me - LISTEN RON!"

"I wanna help - I wanna kill Death Eaters - "

His face is contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he's shaking with rage and grief.

"Ron, we're the only ones who can end it! Please - Ron - we need the snake, we've got to kill the snake!" Hermione says.

Hermione is right, of course, and yet I cannot bring myself to care about the snake of the Horcrux or any of it. I just want to see Fred. I want to see him smile and hear him laugh and hold him and kiss him and count the freckles on his face and on his body and - 

"We will fight!" Hermione is saying. "We'll have to, to reach the snake! But let's not lose sight now of what we're supposed to be d-doing! We're the only ones who can end it!"

Though I'm not looking directly at her, I realise dimly that she's crying. She wipes her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she speaks, but she takes great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turns to Harry.

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry - looking inside him."

And I realise quite suddenly that I do not have the luxury to lose it, to not hold it together. I have no choice but to keep going, so I bring myself to stand, turn to Harry, and taking a deep, shaky breath, say, "Do it."

Harry nods once, swallowing. He closes his eyes, and instantly, from the way his body tenses, I can tell he's already looking into Voldemort's mind. I just watch, staring at him silently. When nearly five minutes goes by, I'm about to try to snap him out of it, when he lets out a gasp and his eyes fly open, just as there's another round of the screeches and cries, the crashes and bangs, of the battle.

"He's in the Shrieking Shack. The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it. He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

I stare at Harry, a mixture of disbelief and outrage bubbling up inside of me. "He's just sitting there in the Shrieking Shack? He's not even fucking fighting?"

But even as I say it, I'm not sure why I'm surprised, not sure what I expected.

"He doesn't think he needs to fight," Harry replies. "He thinks I'm going to come to him."

"But why?" says Hermione.

"He knows I'm after the Horcruxes - he's keeping Nagini close to him - obviously I'm going to have to go to him to get near the thing - "

"Right," Ron says, squaring his shoulders. "So you can't go, that's what he wants, what he's expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione and Hazel, and I'll go get it - "

Harry cuts across Ron. "You three stay here, I'll go under the Cloak and I'll be back as soon as I - "

"No," says Hermione, "it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and - "

"Don't even think about it," Ron snarls.

Before Hermione can get farther than, "Ron, I'm just as capable as - " the tapestry at the top of the staircase on which we stand is ripped open.

"POTTER!"

Two masked Death Eaters stand there, but even before their wands are fully raised, Hermione shouts, " _Glisseo!_ "

The stairs beneath our feet flatten into a chute and she, Harry, Ron, and I hurtle down it, unable to control our speed but so fast that the Death Eaters' Stunning Spells fly far over our heads. We shoot through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and spin onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall.

" _Duro!_ " Hermione cries, pointing her wand at the tapestry, and there are two loud, sickening crunches as the tapestry turns to stone and the Death Eaters pursuing crumple against it.

"Get back!" Ron shouts, and he, Harry, Hermione, and I hurl ourselves against a door as a herd of galloping desks thunder past, shepherded by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appears not to notice us. Her hair has come down and there's a gash on her cheek.

As she turns the corner, we hear her scream, "CHARGE!"

"Harry, you get the Cloak on," Hermione says. "Never mind us - "

"Let's do this together," I say roughly and with an inarguable finality. I've lost any energy to argue. "We started this together, let's finish it together."

And with that, Harry throws the Cloak over the four of us; large that we are, I doubt that anyone will see our disembodies feet through the dust that clogs the air, the falling stone, the shimmer of spells. We ran down the next staircase and find ourselves in a corridor full of duellers. The portraits on either side of the fighters are crammed with figures screaming advice and encouragement, while Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, duelled students and teachers. Dean seems to have won himself a wand, for he's face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati with Travers. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I raise our wands at once, ready to strike, but the duellers are weaving and darting so much that there's a strong likelihood of hurting one of our side if we cast curses. Even as we stand braced, looking for an opportunity to act, there comes a great "WHEEEEEE!" and looking up, I can see Peeves zooming overhead dropping Snargaluff pods down onto the Death Eaters, whose heads are suddenly engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms.

"ARGH!"

A fistful of tubers has hit the Cloak over Ron's head; the damp green roots and suspended improbably in midair as Ron tries to shake them loose.

"Someone's invisible there!" shouts a masked Death Eater, pointing.

Dean makes the most of the Death Eater's momentary distraction by knocking him out with a Stunning Spell; Dolohov attempts to retaliate, but Parvati shoots a Full-Body Bind Curse at him.

"LET'S GO!" Harry yells, and he, Ron, Hermione, and I gather the Cloak tightly around ourselves and pelt, heads down, through the midst of fighters, slipping a little in pools of Snargaluff juice, towards the top of the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

"I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm Draco, I'm on your side!"

Draco is on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. I stun the Death Eater as we pass. Malfoy looks around, beaming, for his saviour, and Ron punches him from under the Cloak. Malfoy falls backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused.

"And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!" Ron yells.

There are more duellers all over the stairs and in the hall. Death Eaters everywhere I look; Yaxley, close to the front doors, in combat with Flitwick; a masked Death Eater duelling Kingsley right beside us. Students run in every direction; some carrying or dragging injured friends. Harry directs a Stunning Spell toward the masked Death Eater; it misses but nearly hits Neville, who has emerged from nowhere brandishing armfuls of Venomous Tentacula, which loops itself happily around the nearest Death Eater and begins reeling him in.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I speed down the marble staircase. Glass shatters on the left, and the Slytherin hourglass that records the House points spills its emeralds everywhere, so that people slip and stagger as they run. Two bodies fall from the balcony overhead as we reach a grey blur that I mistake for an animal speed four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen.

"NO!" shrieks Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Fenrir Greyback is thrown backward from the feebly struggling body of Lavender Brown. He hits the marble banisters and struggles to return to his feet. Then, with a bright white flash and a crack, a crystal ball falls on top of his head, and he crumples to the ground and does not move.

"I have more!" Professor Trelawney screams from over the banisters. "More for any who want them! Here - " and with a move like a tennis serve, she heaves another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waves her hand through the air, and causes the ball to speed across the hall and smash through a window.

At the same moment, the heavy wooden front doors burst open, and gigantic spiders, clearly the relatives of the dead Aragog, force their way into the front hall. Screams of terror rent the air. The fighters scatter, Death Eaters and Hogwartians alike, and red and green jets of light fly into the midst of the oncoming monsters, which shudder and rear, more terrifying than ever.

"How do we get out?" Ron yells over all the screaming, but before any of us can answer, we're bowled aside; Hagrid has come thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery pink umbrella.

"Don't hurt 'em, don't hurt 'em!" he yells.

"HAGRID, NO!"

Harry sprints out from under the cloak, running bent double to avoid the curses illuminating the whole hall.

"HAGRID, COME BACK!"

But he's not even halfway to Hagrid when it happens; Hagrid vanishes among the spiders, and with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, they retreat under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid buried in their midst.

"HAGRID!"

I sprint under the Cloak after him until I've caught up with Harry, the two of us pelting down the front steps into the dark grounds, and the spiders are swarming away with their prey, and neither of us can see anything of Hagrid at all.

"HAGRID!"

I think for a moment that I can make out an enormous arm waving from the midst of the spider swarm, but as we make to chase after them, our way is impeded by a monumental foot, which swings down out of the darkness and makes the ground on which we're standing shudder. We look up in unison. A giant stands before us, twenty feet high, its head hidden in shadow, nothing but its treelike, hair shins illuminated by light from the castle doors. With one brutal, fluid movement, it smashes a massive fist through an upper window, and glass rains down upon Harry and I, forcing us back under the shelter of the doorway.

"Oh my - !" shrieks Hermione, as she and Ron catch up with us and gaze upward at the giant now trying to seize people through the window above.

"DON'T!" Ron yells, grabbing Hermione's hand as she raises her wand. "Stun him and he'll crush half the castle - "

"HAGGER - ?"

Grawp comes lurching around the corner of the castle. Hagrid's told me before that Grawp is an undersized giant, but I hadn't realised how right he was until this exact moment. The gargantuan monster trying to crush people on the upper floors turn around and lets out a roar. The stone steps tremble as he stomps towards his smaller kin, and Grawp's lopsided mouth falls open, showing yellow, half brick-sized teeth, and then they launch themselves at each other like lions.

"RUN!" Harry roars; the night is full of hideous yells and blows as the giants wrestle. Harry seizes my hand, I grab Hermione, and Ron brings up the rear, the four of us tearing down the steps into the grounds. I'm still desperate to find Hagrid and save him; I can't stand the thought of him being - of him being - I force the thought out of my mind.

We run so fast that we're halfway toward the forest before we're brought up short again. The air around us has frozen. My breath catches and solidifies in my chest. Shapes move out in the darkness, swirling figures of concentrated blackness, moving in a great wave towards the castles, their faces hooded and their breath rattling...

The four of us close in beside each other as the sound of the fighting behind us grow suddenly muted, deadened, because a silence only Dementors could bring is falling thickly through the night. I know I should fight them, I know I should try to cast a Patronus, and yet suddenly I don't see the reason why. I don't see a reason to fight against it, to fight against any of this, when Fred is still so far away without me knowing what happened, when Hagrid is surely dying or already dead, when I have no idea what's happened to any of the others, when they could all be dead...

I feel Harry raise his wand from beside me. I feel as though I should try to help him, and yet I can't bring myself to move my hand, a dull hopelessness spreading through me... it feels already as though half my soul has left my body... a hundred Dementors are advancing, gliding towards us, sucking their way closer to my despair, which must be like a promise of a feast...

I see Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; I see Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade. My hands start trembling at my sides, and I find myself welcoming the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothingness, of no  _feeling_...

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soar past Harry's, Ron's, Hermione's, and my heads. The Dementors fall back before the creatures' approach. Three more people have arrived out of the darkness to stand beside us, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," Luna says encouragingly, as if we're all back in the Room of Requirement and this is simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry, Hazel... come on, think of something happy..."

"Something happy?" I repeat, my voice cracking.

"We're all still here," she tells us, and I realise then Harry couldn't produce a Patronus either, "we're still fighting. Come on, now..."

There's a silver spark, then a wavering light from Harry's wand, and then a moment later, the silver stag bursts forth. Seeing it canter forward encourages me, and I finally raise my wand. With the greatest effort it's ever taken me, I get the silver coyote to burst from the end of my wand, running forward alongside the stag. The appearance of the stag and the coyote has the Dementors scattering in earnest, and immediately the night is mild again, but the sounds of the surrounding battle are loud in my ears.

"Can't thank you enough," Ron says shakily, turning to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus, "you just saved - "

With a roar and an earth-quaking tremor, another giant comes lurching out of the darkness from the direction of the forest, brandishing a club taller than any of us.

"RUN!" Harry shouts again, quite unnecessarily, since none of us need any telling; we all scatter, and not a second too soon, for the next moment the creature's vast foot has fallen exactly where we were standing. I look round; Harry, Ron, and Hermione are all following behind, but the other three have vanished back into the battle.

"Let's get out of range!" Ron yells as the giant swings its club again and its bellows echo through the late night, across the grounds where bursts of red and green light continue to illuminate the darkness.

"The Whomping Willow," Harry says, "go!"

Just as always, I find a way to wall up the things I know I can't think of without falling apart completely; thoughts of Fred, of Hagrid, the fear for everyone I love, because it has to wait, it always has to wait, wait for us to finish running, to find and kill the snake and then Voldemort, for it's, as Hermione said, the only way to end it all - 

I sprint, as though I could outrun death itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness all around, and the sound of the lake crashing like the sea, and the creaking of the Forbidden Forest through the night is windless. Through grounds that seem to have risen in rebellion, I run faster than I can ever remember running, and soon I can see the great tree, the Willow that protects the secrets at its roots with whiplike, slashing branches. Panting and gasping, I slow down, skirting the willow's swiping branches, peering through the darkness towards its thick trunk, trying to see the single knot on the bark of the old tree that would paralyse it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione soon catch up, Hermione so out of breath that she cannot speak.

"How - how're we going to get in?" Ron pants. "I can - see the place - if we just had - Crookshanks again - "

"Crookshanks?" Hermione wheezes, bent double, clutching her chest. "Are you a wizard, or what?"

On another day, the comment would have made me smile.

"Oh - right - yeah - " Ron looks around, then directs his wand to a twig on the ground and says, " _Wingardium Leviosa!_ "

The twig flies up from the ground, spins through the air as if caught by a gust of wind, then zooms directly at the trunk through the Willow's ominously swaying branches. It jabs at a place near the roots, and at once, the writhing tree becomes still.

"Perfect!" Hermione pants.

"Wait," Harry says suddenly, and I can see it, his hesitation at the realisation that Voldemort is on the other end of that tunnel, his lack of desire for Ron, Hermione, and I to come.

"Harry, we're coming, just get in there!" Ron says, pushing him forward.

Harry wriggles into the earthy passage hidden in the tree's roots. The rest of us follow after him.

It's a much tighter squeeze than it had been the last time we had entered it. The tunnel is low-ceilinged. We had to double up to move through it nearly four years previously; now there's nothing for it but to crawl. Harry goes first, his wand illuminated, while the rest of us follow. I expect at any moment to meet barriers, but none come. We move in silence, my gaze fixed upon the swinging beam of the wand held in Harry's fist. At last, the tunnel begins to slope upward and I see a sliver of light ahead. Hermione tugs at Harry's ankle.

"The Cloak!" she whispers. "Put the Cloak on!"

Hermione forces the slippery cloth into his free hand. With difficult, he drags it over himself and extinguishes his wandlight. With that, we continue on our hands and knees, as silently as possible. All my senses are straining, expecting every second to be discovered, to hear that cold clear voice, to see a flash of green light.

And then I hear voices coming from the room directly ahead of us, only slightly muffled by the fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel has been blocked by what looks like an old crate. Hardly daring to breathe, we move in as close as possible to the opening and listen hard, peering through the gap left between crate and wall.

The room beyond is dimly lit, but I can see Nagini, swirling and coiling like a serpent underwater, protected in an enchanted, starry sphere, which floats unsupported in midair. I can see the edge of a table, and a long-fingered white hand toying with a wand.

Then I can hear Snape's voice and I tense up immediately; Snape is inches from where we're crouched, hidden.

"... my Lord, their resistance is crumbling - "

" - and it is doing so without your help," Voldemort says in his high, clear voice. "Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there... almost."

"Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please."

Snape strides past the gap, and I find myself drawing back a little in spite of myself, brushing Ron's shoulder. I keep my eyes fixed on Nagini, wondering if there's any spell that could penetrate the protection around her, but I can;t think of anything. Besides, how could we kill her? She must be harder to kill now that she's a Horcrux... one failed attempt, one opportunity wasted, and it would be over for us...

Voldemort stands up. I can see him now, the red eyes, the flattened, serpentine face, the pallor of him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness.

"I have a problem, Severus," Voldemort says softly.

"My Lord?" says Snape.

Voldemort raises the Elder Wand, holding it as delicately and precisely as a conductor's baton.

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?"

In the silence, I can hear the snake hissing slightly as it coils and uncoils, but it could be my imagination - or is it Voldemort's sigh lingering in the air?

"My - my Lord?" Snape says blankly. "I do not understand. You - you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand."

"No," says Voldemort. "I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand... no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago."

Voldemort's tone is musing, calm, but I can sense the controlled fury inside him, buried just under the surface.

"No difference," he says again.

Snape does not speak. I can't see his face. I wonder whether Snape can sense the current danger, if he's trying to find the right words to reassure his master.

Voldemort starts to move around the room; I lose sight of him for seconds as he prowls, speaking in that same measured voice.

"I have thought long and hard, Severus... do you know why I have called you back from battle?"

And for a moment, I can see Snape's profile. His eyes are fixed upon the coiling snake in its enchanted cage.

"No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter."

"You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is his from that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come."

"But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by someone other than yourself - "

"My instructions to the Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends - the more, the better - but do not kill him.

"But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable."

"My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But - let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can - "

"I have told you, no!" Voldemort says, and I catch the glint of red in his eyes as he turns again, and the swishing of his cloak like the slithering of a snake, and I can sense his impatience, his mounting fury. "My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!"

"My Lord, there can be no question, surely - ?"

" - but there is a question, Severus. There is."

Voldemort halts, and I can see him plainly again as he slides the Elder Wand through his white fingers, staring at Snape.

"Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

"I - I cannot answer that, my Lord."

"Can't you?"

It's a dangerous question, one not meant to be answered. Snape remains silent.

"My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another's wand. I did so, but Lucius' wand shatters upon meeting Potter's."

"I - I have no explanation, my Lord."

Snape is not looking at Voldemort. His dark eyes are still fixed upon the coiling serpent in its protective sphere.

"I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I take it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

And now Snape is looking at Voldemort, his face like a death mask. It's marble white and so still that when he speaks, it's a surprise that anyone is still living behind those blank eyes.

"My Lord - let me go to the boy - "

"All this long night when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here," says Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner... and I think I have the answer."

Snape does not speak.

"Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord - "

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine."

"My Lord!" Snape protests, raising his wand.

"It cannot be any other way," Voldemort says. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."

And Voldemort swipes the air with the Elder Wand. It does nothing to Snape, as I had expected, which makes Snape think for a split second that he had been reprieved; but then Voldemort's true intention becomes clear. The snake's cage is rolling through the air, and before Snape can do anything more than yell, it encases him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort speaks in Parseltongue, something I can't understand, but from what happens next, I know he said, "Kill."

There's a terrible scream. I see Snape's face losing the little colour it has left; it whitens as his black eyes widen, as the snake's fangs pierced his neck, as he fails to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees give way and he falls to the floor.

"I regret it," Voldemort says coldly.

He turns away. There's no sadness to him, no remorse. He points his wand, now properly his, at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifts upward, off Snape, who falls sideways onto the floor, bloody gushing from the wounds in his neck. Voldemort sweeps away without so much as a backward glance, and the great serpent floats after him in its huge protective sphere.

For a moment, I'm too stunned to move, my heart thundering in my chest and my face drained of colour. Then, without thinking, I point my wand at the crate blocking the entrance.

"Hazel!" Hermione hisses, but I don't listen, having already lifted the crate an inch into the air with my wand, allowing it to drift sideways silently. Harry pulls himself quietly up into the room; with no other choice, Hermione follows, then me, with Ron bringing up the rear.

I don't know why I did it. I don't know from where the need to see the dying man came. And I don't know what I feel as I see Snape's white face and the fingers trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. Harry takes off the Invisibility Cloak. I look down at the man I've always hated as he widens his eyes at the sight of us. Harry bends down over him, and Snape seizes the front of his robes and pulls him close.

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issues from Snape's throat.

"Take... it... take... it..."

Something more than blood is leaking from Snape now. Silvery blue, neither gas nor liquid, it gushes from his mouth and his ears and his eyes. After a moment, I recognise it as the same substance that makes up a Pensieve... Snape's giving Harry memories... I raise my wand shakily, conjuring up a flask and hastening to hand it to Harry, who lifts the silvery substance into it with his wand. When the flask is full to the brim, and Snape looks as though there's no blood in him, his grip on Harry's robes slackens.

"Look... at... me..." he whispers.

His black eyes meet Harry's green ones, but after a second, something in the depths of his dark eyes seems to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thuds to the floor, and Snape moves no more.


	42. Marching Forward

**Until the Very End**

**Chapter Forty-Two: Marching Forward**

 

For a time, Harry remains kneeling at Snape's side, simply staring down at him, until quite suddenly a high, cold voice speaks so close to us that Harry jumps to his feet, the flask gripped tightly into his hands, and I think Voldemort has re-entered the room.

Voldemort's voice reverberates from the walls and floor, and I realise that he's talking to Hogwarts and to all the surrounding area, that the residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in the castle would hear him as clearly as if he stood beside them, his breath on the back of their necks, a deathblow away.

"You have fought," says the high, cold voice, "valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

Ron, Hermione, and I all shake our heads frantically, looking at Harry.

"Don't listen to him," says Ron.

"We'll figure this out," I tell Harry desperately. He can't give himself up to Voldemort. I can't stand the thought of him dying, too. "We'll figure it out, alright, Harry?"

"It'll be alright," says Hermione wildly. "Let's - let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan - "

She glances back at Snape's body, then hurries back to the tunnel entrance. Ron follows after her. I wait for Harry, who gathers up the Invisibility Cloak. We both look back down at Snape. I don't know what to feel, except shock at the way he had been killed, and the reason for it...

We crawl back through the tunnel, none of us talking. I wonder if they can hear Voldemort's cold voice still ringing in their heads the way I can.

Small bundles seem to litter the lawn at the front of the castle. It could only be an hour or so from dawn, and yet the sky is pitch black. The four of us hurry toward the stone steps. A long dog, the size of a small boat, lays abandoned in front of us. There is no other sign of Grawp or his attacker.

The castle is unnaturally silent. There are no flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts. The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall are stained with blood. Emeralds are still scattered all over the floor, along with pieces of marble and splintered wood. Part of the banisters have been blown away.

"Where is everyone?" whispers Hermione.

Ron leads the way to the Great Hall. I stop in the doorway.

The House tables are gone and the room is crowded. The survivors stand in groups, their arms around each other's necks. The injured are being treated upon the raised platform by Madam Pomfrey and a group of helpers. Firenze is among the injured; his flank pours blood and he shakes where he lies, unable to stand.

The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. Directly in front of me, Devon, Jace, Marina, Layla, and Grover all kneel crowded around Felix's body, still and silent but almost peaceful. Grief comes back to me in full force, squeezing my heart painfully. I amble forward without thinking, hugging each of them tightly as they cry. I kneel by Felix's body, holding his cold hand in mind. It feels so wrong to see him so still; for a second I think he'll open his eyes, grin at all of us, sit up and tell some sarcastic quip he always seems to have on hand, but he does not move. He does not speak. He just lays there, his blonde hair falling in his eyes. I reach up and sweep the hair from his eyes gently, as if he still might feel it. My hand lingers there, for just a moment, before I take a deep breath and tear myself away from him. One quick glance around the group tells me they want to be alone with Felix. I bite my lip to stop it from trembling, give them one last look, as though to tell them I'm there if they need me, and force myself to move away from Felix's horribly still body, resisting from looking back as I rejoin Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

A little way's off from the row of the dead, I know Fred is lying there, but I cannot see him because his family surrounds him. George is kneeling at his head; Mrs. Weasley is lying across Fred's chest, her body shaking; Mr. Weasley is stroking her hair while tears cascade down his cheeks.

Without a word, Ron and Hermione walk away. Hermione approaches Ginny, whose face is swollen and blotchy, and hugs her. Ron joins Bill, Fleur and Percy, who flings an arm around Bill's shoulders. I, however, hang back. This is Fred's family... this is his family... who had known him more than twice as long as I had, who had never hurt him the way I must have this past year... I have no right, no right at all, to impose on this moment, to impose on their grieving...

As Ginny and Hermione move closer to the rest of the Weasleys, I have a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred. My heart drops, stopping dead. Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, as though asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. Everything else seems to fade away. Slowly, surely, I make my way to the two bodies. To Remus, to the closest thing to a father I have ever known; to Tonks, to the friend and protector.

I reach the bodies, and kneel right beside Remus' body, and I can feel them; the sobs clawing their way up my throat, the tears stinging and pooling at my eyes, and I know I'm supposed to hold them in, as I've always had to do, but I'm so  _tired_. I'm tired of always having to keep it together, I'm tired of always having to keep going, I'm tired of being strong, I'm tired of loss. And I'm there beside Remus, who is completely still and silent, and my hand is over his chest, and there is no heartbeat to be found, and Tonks is beside him, and somehow, despite her lively personality, is even stiller than Remus is. And Fred is right ahead, so close, and I had wanted to see him so desperately, and yet now I cannot even bear to look at him, too frightened of what I will find, unable to even face the Weasleys now. My entire body is shaking, and I'm struggling to even breathe, and I can't hold it in any longer.

I move a little closer to Remus. I look down at his face. At the stillness of his chest. Then I look over at Tonks. I listen to the Weasleys and Hermione crying behind me. I can hear Devon, Marina, Layla, and Grover crying and whispering around Felix's body.

And for the first time, in a long, long time, I let out a sob. Then another. Then another. And soon I'm howling without control. tears streaming down my cheeks without stopping. I crouch down until my head is on Remus' chest, clutching at his torn, shabby robes, and continue to sob almost hysterically, and once I start, I can't stop.

It's all too much. I yearn not to feel anything at all. I wish I could rip out my heart, my insides, everything that's screaming inside of me. For a second, I wish that the Dementors had succeeded in taking my soul, that they really had killed me in Malfoy Manor those weeks ago... I wouldn't have had to feel this kind of  _pain_... there would just be nothingness...

I feel someone tugging on me from behind as I wail, and tighten my grip on Remus' robes. I cannot leave them now... from the way Remus and Tonks look, they really might be sleeping... if I leave them, I might miss them opening their eyes, might miss them waking up... they will wake up and not know what's happened, they'll want to know what they missed, and I'll be there to explain it to them... the stillness of their chests, the lack of a pulse, it's all just to deceive me... they'll be up on their feet in no time, ready to act again, they always are...

The person tugging at me pulls harder, and I realise I am weaker than I thought, because soon they are successfully tugging me away, pulling me to my feet and away, out of the Great Hall, and I don't struggle against them, still sobbing. I look up at them, and through a blur of tears, I see Neville, an arm firmly around me, pulling me away. He doesn't stop until we're at a corridor, where a broken window lets in the cool night air. Only then does he let me go. Immediately, feeling drained, I collapse against the wall, putting my head in my hands. I hear Neville sit down next to me. He is silent as I cry, not speaking until my crying has turned to silent tears and shaking and occasional dry sobs.

"I thought you needed to get out of there," he says in explanation. "It was getting to be too much for you."

 _It's too much for me no matter where I am_ , I think, but only say, "Thank you.

"I'm sorry, Hazel," he says after a moment. "I know - I know you loved them a lot."

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything, letting out another choked sob and wiping my face with my sleeve.

"You weren't hurt, were you?"

I just shake my head. I want to ask if he's been hurt, but I can't get the words out, so I just look over at him to see if he's visibly injured.

"I wasn't hurt too bad," Neville says, correctly interpreting the action. "I'll be fine."

I just nod silently. I bring my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. My entire body feels like lead, with a heaviness in my chest that's beginning to suffocate me. I struggle to breathe, inhaling and exhaling deeply in turn.

Finally, Neville says, standing up, "I'll leave you alone for a bit. But if you need me, come find me. I mean it, Hazel. I'll be there for you if you need me."

My eyes wander up to where he's standing. For a moment, I do nothing, before nodding once. I want to thank him, to tell him how much his kindness means to me, but then my eyes are welling up with tears again and my mouth is stuck shut and I can't speak again. He doesn't seem to need words to understand. He just nods back, squeezing my shoulder lightly, and walks down the corridor, his hands in the pockets of his robes. I watch him leave, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, and notice that he's limping slightly, realising with a jolt he was likely lying when he told me he wasn't injured. Before I can call out to him and say anything about it, he's turned the corner and left.

I lean back against the wall, my shoulders slumping, rubbing my face blearily. I stare ahead of me blankly, but all I can see is Fred's face when he saw me, when I told him I love him, the gleeful smile on his face right before that explosion that tore everything inside me apart... and I couldn't even look at him back there... I couldn't face him, couldn't face the other Weasleys... I still don't even know what's happened to him, I couldn't bear to find out, weak as I am, cowardly as I am... I still don't know if I'll ever be able to hold him again, to kiss him again, to tell him I love him over and over until the words sound foreign in both of our ears...

And Remus is gone, and so is Tonks. Now that I'm away from them, I know it to be the unshakeable truth. They are not just asleep. They won't wake up, they won't open their eyes and ask what they've missed, they won't jump up to get back into the action. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead and they left Teddy behind, another kid who'll grow up without parents because of this fucking war. Remus will never smile at me in that tender way again, will never comfort me in that way only he can do when I'm scared or upset, will never write to me when he knows I've been feeling lonely or stressed, will never sit with me and tell me stories of when he was younger. Tonks will never flash me one of her big, lively grins, will never tell jokes that leave me in tears from laughing so hard, will never do all sots of silly transformations to herself to make me smile when she can tell I'm upset about something. And Felix is dead, too, and he will never crack jokes with me to pass the time when we're bored, will never play that guitar and sing all the songs he loved so much, will never reunite with his mother, his sister, and his brother...

And suddenly I'm crying, sobbing hysterically all over again, but there's a sort of fury to it now. These people have been taken from the world, and too soon, senselessly and violently, and it isn't  _fair_. It isn't fair that these people are dead, and there's so much pain and mourning and grief. Suddenly, my anger at it all is overwhelming, and before I know it, I'm on my feet, and I'm using my power over wind to blast all the rubble from the battle with vigour like a tornado. I turn and punch the wall, and my power over earth causes the stone to crack at the pressure. I expect it to be some sort of release for the anger and the grief that's threatening to overwhelm me, but by the end of it, I feel more helpless and grief-stricken than ever, tears still welling up in my eyes with no sign of going away any time soon. All of a sudden, I'm drained all over again, sitting back against the wall and dissolving into tears all over again, burying my head in my hands.

"I'm disappointed," says a familiar voice behind me, after a time. "You didn't seem the type to use senseless violence as an outlet for your emotions. Try to use your words."

I look up immediately to find Sir Phineas sitting in a portrait across from me. Sir Phineas stares down the original inhabitant of the portrait until he runs out from the side of his frame hurriedly, muttering under his breath. Then, Sir Phineas turns back to me. The mixture of overwhelming grief and helplessness and pain, mixed with surprise to see Phineas, makes it difficult to respond, so all I can bring myself to say is, "Fuck off, Sir Phineas."

"It's a start, albeit a crude one," he smirks. "At least you remembered to use the 'Sir'," he continues, then studies me more closely, immediately frowning. "Are you crying?"

"Maybe," I say, sniffling and wiping my face with my sleeve.

"Well," Sir Phineas says impatiently, "don't leave me in suspense, girl. What happened?"

"You know that boy I told you about," I say. "The one who told me he loved me? He's - there was an explosion and he - "

"He's dead?" Sir Phineas guesses.

I shrug my shoulders helplessly. "That's the thing, I don't even know. I couldn't bring myself to face it. Maybe I could have done it, but then I found out that my godfather and his wife - a friend of mine - and my friend had all died, and there was a whole line of people who were dead in the Great Hall, and I just... I couldn't handle it after that."

"I see," Sir Phineas says, thoughtful. After a pause, a silence only interrupted by my sniffling or my quiet sobs, he says, "I am sorry for your loss, Hazel. Believe me, I've been through the same thing."

I remember his story of his wife, the wife he never told he loved enough. I nod once. "Yeah, I suppose you have."

"I know what you are feeling right now, Hazel, but I am sure we both heard You-Know-Who's message. This battle is not over yet. You must remain strong - "

But I'm shaking my head, hysteria rising up back inside of me at the words, saying, "I can't. I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of having to stand back up again, I'm tired of it never  _ending_ \- "

"Well, what's there to be done about it?" Sir Phineas says impatiently. "What's the other option? We continue on with life as we always do. We do as we must, regardless of what has been thrown at us. That is life."

"Then maybe I don't want to be alive!" I say, throwing my hands up in the air, tears falling down my face quicker now both from grief and from anger. "Maybe I don't want any of it, then, if this is all it ever is!"

For a moment, Sir Phineas is silent, staring at me. Then, he says, "You don't mean that."

"How do you know?" I demand stubbornly.

"Because there is much to live for still, you know this. Your friends that remain to you. This boy of yours who may still be alive. A safer future, one without You-Know-Who and his followers. You know this. Grief will try to blind you of it. Don't let it."

I shake my head, bringing my arms around my knees again and looking away from him, saying, "I don't know if I can do it still, Sir Phineas."

"Yes, you can," he says matter-of-factly. "You have fought your whole life, Knight. You know how to push through. You always have."

I say nothing to that, letting out a choked sob and avoiding eye contact with the figure in the portrait.

"Well, I can't force you to believe me, but know it is the truth," Sir Phineas says. "I'm off to see the rest of the castle and see how everyone else is holding up. I do still feel a certain duty to my school, you know. I hope to see you son."

"Yeah," I tell him, after a pause. "You too."

He nods at me once, before disappearing through the side of the portrait, just like its original inhabitant. For a time, there is complete silent. I've stopped crying. It feels as though I have no sobs, no tears left within me. I simply feel empty now. I check my watch. It's only been thirty minutes. Another thirty until the fighting restarts. I remember Neville's offer to go to see him if I need him, and decide to take him up on it. I stand on my feet, slightly unsteady, leaning against the wall for support. I wipe my eyes, before walking forward in search for Neville, finally finding him outside the front of the castle, examining the wreckage all around.

"Mind if I join you?" I say quietly, drawing his attention to me.

"Not at all," he says, gesturing around.

I nod once, moving to stand near him. We look around us at the rubble and the debris the battle has caused. The night is deadly silent. I can tell dawn is coming soon. Looking around makes me realise that there's no coming back from this night, not for anyone.

"It looks almost peaceful," Neville's saying. "In a way, doesn't it?"

I look around at the still and silent night. Nothing is moving, except for the small waves coming from the Great Lake. Something about it makes me wonder, somewhere in the back of my mind, how the giant squid is taking all of this.

"I suppose so," I say finally, though all I can think about is that it won't last. It never does.

We're both silent for a time. I drift over to sit down on the steps. Neville remains standing, kicking around bits of rubble. I stare blankly into the distance. After a few minutes, I see a speck on the horizon, slowly approaching. I squint, unable to make out what it is.

"Hey, Neville, do you see that?" I say, wanting to make sure I'm not imagining things.

Neville frowns. "See what?"

" _That,_ " I repeat, standing up and pointing at the speck in the distance, becoming larger and larger as it approaches closer.

"Well, I see it now," he says, tensing up. "What do you think it is?"

"Nothing good, I expect," I say, pulling out my wand and ensuring that the Cross of Elements is secure on my finger.

"It can't be  _them_ , though," he says, looking over at me hesitantly. By 'them', I know he means Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and the Snatchers. "It's not another - " he checks his watch - "twenty minutes until the fighting starts up again."

"I don't put Voldemort and his followers under my list of most trustworthy people, personally," I reply. "Especially at a time like this. Maybe he's changed his mind."

"I'll go get more fighters, then," Neville says. "Unless you reckon the two of us could take down a whole army by ourselves?"

"If I needed to take down a whole army with help from only one other person, you'd be a good person to have in my corner," I inform him. "But more help would be good."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it fades when he looks back out at the horizon. The speck has become defined enough to confirm it's a group, but I can't make out anything other than the fact that one of the people among them is extremely tall. Neville rushes into the castle. I keep my eyes glued on the approaching group, my wand held tightly in my hand. Neville's back outside in just over thirty seconds.

"What did you tell them?" I say, slightly surprised.

"That we might have serious trouble and we needed as much back up as we could possibly get," Neville shrugs. "Hopefully they'll come out fast."

"Real fast," I reply, "because that's definitely Voldemort in the middle there."

I gesture towards the figure in the middle, with deathly pale skin and, I can see even from this far, red glints in his eyes. I can't bring myself to feel afraid. I'm aware that I could die, that we could all die, and I can't bring myself to be afraid. If anything, I'm angry all over again. He's the reason for all of this, for all this pain and suffering and death. If I'm going down, I'm giving him as much hell as I can first.

"Where's Harry?" I ask Neville. "Did you see him at all? He's going to want to be a hero about this, but he needs to be as far away from all of this as possible."

Neville replies. "The only time I saw him since the fighting stopped was when he was on his way to go - somewhere - I don't know, he never told me - but he also said that in case he, you, Ron, or Hermione couldn't do it, to kill Voldemort's snake. He said it was really important the snake dies."

"He didn't tell you where he's going," I say, and already I can feel it; panic, slowly mounting inside me as I look back over to the approaching group.

"No - but he - he didn't," Neville says, immediately knowing what I'm thinking. "He wouldn't. There's no way he would - "

But of course there was. I know Harry far too well to think otherwise. He hates the idea of so many people dying for him, that more might continue to die for the sake of protecting him. He would do anything to make sure no more people had to die, especially for him, even if it meant dying himself... and it would make perfect sense if he went to Neville to ensure Nagini was killed, if one less person would be available to destroy the Horcrux...

My heart racing, I take a few steps forward, ignoring Neville's warning to stay back. I can see more outlines more clearly now. I see Bellatrix by Voldemort's side, her wild, curly hair falling all around as she seems to be cackling about God knows what, from the sounds of it. The other Death Eaters and Snatchers were just as loud and rowdy, apparently gleeful about something, giving me a bad feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy are a little way's away from her, solemn and silent, a stark contrast from the rest of the Death Eaters. Draco is nowhere to be found.

In other circumstances, I would find that odd, but right now, I'm focused on the massive figure walking a little way's off from the group. Hagrid. And in his arms, he's carrying a completely still body; one with jet black hair, and charred robes, and scuffed up trainers just like Harry's... and I can already feel them, tears prickling in my eyes as my chest feels as though it's going to close in on itself and my body will collapse once and for all on me, unable to handle this one, last great blow in one night, to handle the loss of someone who has been a brother to me since I was five, because I can't even bring myself to deny what I am seeing. I know Harry. I know he would sacrifice himself over and over again to save others, to save the ones he cares about, even if it means he must die himself. I know the decision was probably barely a decision at all to him, that all he needed to do was tell Neville to try and get to the snake before he felt free to put his life before all of ours.

"Hazel," Neville says slowly, and I know it in his voice that he's realised what I have, too. "Hazel, I - "

"Harry," I say softly, repeating the name, quietly at first, until I'm crying out in pain. "HARRY! HARRY! NO!  _NO!_ "

I run forward to him, desperate to see him, no matter what Voldemort and his Death Eaters do to me, but Neville grabs me and pulls me back, restraining me with obvious difficulty as I thrash and struggle against him.

"Hazel, you can't!" he says. "You can't, they'll kill you!"

"He's my best friend!" I say, trying to free myself, but to no avail. "He's always - please - please!"

The Death Eaters laugh even more at my outburst, and finally, finally I stop struggling. Neville releases me slowly, cautiously, moving me so that I'm behind me. I don't try to run to Harry anymore, but I do move so that I'm standing beside Neville as opposed to behind him, so overwhelmed by grief that I feel as though I'll surely explode.

The Death Eaters finally come to a stop, standing across from the two of us. They stop just as people start to stream out onto the grounds from the Entrance Hall. The reaction when they see Harry's body in Hagrid's arms is instant.

"NO!"

This scream is particularly terrible because I had never even dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a noise. Bellatrix laughs out loud, glorying in McGonagall's despair, and through the rapidly mounting grief, I can feel rage welling up inside of me. Voldemort stands silently, stroking Nagini's head with a single white finger.

"No!"

"No!"

"Harry! HARRY!"

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny's reactions are somehow worse than McGonagall's, and hearing their voices suddenly makes things all the more real. My best friend for twelve years... a brother to me... once the only family I had never known... dead in Hagrid's arms. Their cries act like a trigger; the crowd of survivors take up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until - 

"SILENCE!" cries Voldemort, and there's a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence is forced upon us all. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

Sobbing, Hagrid lowers Harry onto the grass. I shift slightly at that, and Neville grabs me, as though to stop me from doing anything, though I wasn't planning to - not yet, at least. But the feeling of grief, now mixed with revulsion and anger at what Voldemort has done to Harry is slowly but surely becoming impossible to ignore. I look down at Harry's body, grief weighing me down like lead.

 _Why didn't you take me with you?_ I can't help but think.  _Why didn't you let me go with you? I would've done it, don't you know?_

"You see?" Voldemort says, striding back and forth beside the place Harry lays. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand how, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

"He beat you!" Ron yells, and the charm breaks, and the defenders of Hogwarts are shouting and screaming until a second, more powerful bang extinguishes their voices once more.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," Voldemort says, a relish in his voice as he tells what I know is a lie, "killed while trying to save himself - "

"Liar!" I cry out immediately, breaking the second charm. "LIAR! FACE THE TRUTH, YOU COWARD! YOU COULD NEVER FACE HIM UNLESS HE SURRENDERED TO YOU! YOU COULD NEVER BEAT HIM - "

And again, a third charm, more powerful than ever, silences me. But beside me, I feel Neville move away from me, and before I can stop him, he's raised his wand, trying to shout out what is undoubtedly a curse, but before he can, Voldemort flicks his wand almost dismissively. Neville falls to the floor, his wand flying into Voldemort's hand, who tosses it aside with a laugh.

"And who is this?" he says in his soft snake's hiss. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Bellatrix gives a delighted laugh.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember," says Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who is struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man's-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Voldemort asks Neville, who stands facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.

"So what if I am?" Neville says loudly.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," says Neville, before shouting, "Dumbledore's Army!"

He's answered with more cheering from the crowd, which Voldemort's Silencing Charms seem unable to hold.

"Very well," says Voldemort, and I head more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in  the most powerful curse. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head," he says quietly, "be it."

Voldemort waves his wand, and I tighten my grip on my own, ready to attack if he does anything to harm Neville. Seconds later, out of one of the castle's shattered windows, something that looks like a misshapen bird flies through the half light and lands in Voldemort's hand. He shakes the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and raged: the Sorting Hat.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," says Voldemort. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

He points his wand at Neville, who grows rigid and still, then forces the hat onto Neville's head, so that it slips down below his eyes. I shuffle forward just slightly, on edge, and there are movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle behind me, and as one, the Death Eaters raise their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay. I find that I'm not afraid of them.

"Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," Voldemort says, and with a flick of his wand, he causes the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

Screams split the dawn, and Neville is aflame, rooted to the spot, and I cannot bear it. I have to act - and just as that registers in my mind, many things happen at once.

We hear uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounds like hundreds of people come swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelt towards the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp comes lumbering around from the side of the castle and yells, "HAGGER!"

His cry is answered by roars from Voldemort's giants. They run at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake. Then comes hooves and the twangs of bows, and arrows are suddenly falling among the Death Eaters, who break ranks, shouting their surprise.

In one swift, fluid motion, Neville breaks free of the Body-Bind curse upon him; the flaming hat falls off him and he draws from its depth something silver, with a glittering rubied handle - the slash of the silver blade cannot be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet, it seems to draw every eye. With a single stroke, Neville slices off the great snake's head, which spins high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the Entrance Hall, and Voldemort's mouth is open in a scream of fury that nobody can hear, and the snake's body thuds to the ground at his feet.

And I'm overwhelmed with the knowledge that nothing is standing between Voldemort and death, but I'm distracted by the realisation that Harry's body is gone. Somehow, through all the chaos, it disappeared.

"HARRY!" Hagrid shouts, apparently coming to the realisation at the same time as me. "HARRY - WHERE'S HARRY?"

Chaos reigns. The charging centaurs are scattering the Death Eaters, everyone is feeling the giants stamping their feet, and nearer and nearer thunders the reinforcements that had come from who knows where. I see great winged creatures soaring over the heads of Voldemort's giants, thestrals and Buckbeak the Hippogriff scratching at their eyes while Grawp punches and pummels them. I stay where I am through it all, searching desperately for Harry. If he was dead, his body could not have gone far, even in all this chaos. Which must mean...

He's not dead. He's alive. Somehow, Harry survive the Killing Curse again.

 _Well, if anyone could do it,_ I think, a smile crossing my face and a laugh escaping my lips despite everything as great relief bubbles up inside of me.  _Why not him?_

The chaos causes the wizards, defends of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike, to turn back and rush into the castle. People run into the Great Hall, and almost immediately, almost everyone seems to be locked in combat. Charlie Weasley and Horace Slughorn come running into the Great Hall, at the head of what looks like the families and friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane, Ronan, and Magorian burst into the hall with a great clatter of hooves, as the door that leads to the kitchens blast off its hinges.

The house-elves of Hogwarts swarm into the Entrance Hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing on his chest, is Kreacher, his bullfrog's voice audible even above the din.

"Fight! Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!"

They hack and stab at the ankles and shins of Death Eaters, their tiny faces alive with malice. Everywhere I look, Death Eaters are folding under the sheer weight of the numbers, overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds, stabbed in the legs by elves, or else simply attempting to escape, but swallowed by the oncoming horde.

Voldemort is in the centre of the battle, striking and smiting all within reach. Yaxley is slammed to the floor by George and Lee Jordan; Dolohov falls to the floor with a scream at Flitwick's hands; Walden McNair is thrown across the room by Hagrid, hitting the stone wall opposite, sliding unconscious to the ground; Ron and Neville are bringing down the Carrows, Aberforth is Stunning Mulciber, Arthur and Percy are bringing down Thicknesse; Lucius and Narcissa are running through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming for the son.

I look around and find exactly who Lucius and Narcissa had been trying and failing to find. Draco is still in the Entrance Hall, backing away with his hands up from Rookwood, Fenrir Greyback, and Travers, who are advancing on him, slowly and menacingly.

"What are you doing? I'm on your side!  _I'm on your side!_ Don't you remember?" Draco is saying desperately. "The Dark Lord won't like this!"

"The Dark Lord doesn't care about you or your cowardly little family," Greyback sneers. "You must know that. Your family's finished. Starting with you."

Draco, if possible, seems paler than usual. I let out a long-suffering sigh.

"How many times am I going to have to save your fucking life?" I mutter, before rushing back into the Entrance Hall and jumping between Draco and his three attackers, saying sternly, "Not another step forward."

For a moment, they all seem surprised. Greyback is the first one to snap out of it, sneering, "You picked up a blood-traitor for a girlfriend, did you, Malfoy?"

Draco is too stunned to say anything. I just take a step forward, snarling, "Say what you want, but if anyone's finished here, it's you lot."

"You don't think you can possibly win?" Travers says with a laugh, but any effect is lost by the fact that the Death Eaters are now vastly outnumbered. "The Dark Lord will finally kill the pest that you are tonight."

"Maybe he will," I concede fairly. "But not before I take the three of you down first."

With that, I strike. I aim for Greyback first, firing a Stunning Spell his way. He jumps out of the way, before lunging for me, knocking me to the floor. We go rolling for a few feet before coming to a stop, him on top of me, pinning me down. He's grinning maliciously, as he opens his mouth, fangs somehow visible even though it's not the full moon, his hot breath on his face. He descends on me, about to bite me. Forcing myself not to panic, I summon my power with fire and forcing it to warm my skin until it's boiling hot and burning Greyback's skin. He releases me with a howl of pain, and I smile in satisfaction. I take a deep breath, and spit fire as I exhale, forcing him to scramble away hurriedly, the hair on his face and neck scorched. I leap to my feet, before pointing my wand at him and sending him flying until he slams against the wall. With another flick of my wand, ropes are binding him tightly in place. With one more flick of my wand, his teeth are knocked out as though his face had been punched in, blood coming out of his mouth. He cries out in pain, writing and struggling desperately against my tight binds. I stride towards him, kneeling down so that our faces are level.

"You are never hurting anyone ever again," I snarl. Then, I point my wand at him and say, " _Stupefy!_ "

He's knocked out immediately. I stand and turn to find Draco looking at me with wide eyes. I give him an annoyed look.

"You could help out a bit," I say. He doesn't move or say anything, still staring at me. "I don't think there are enough words in any language to describe how bloody  _useless_ you are."

"Behind you!" he cries out, pointing.

I turn around to find Travers advancing upon me, his wand raised. He aims a Killing Curse at me, which I hasten to dodge. Travers smiles, apparently unaffected by his unsuccessful attempt to kill me.

"Hazel Knight," he drawls. "The Girl of Smoke. You've become a rather troublesome one for us, you know. I'd been keen to see you in the flesh ever since I heard of your grand escape from the Malfoys. Had I only released that it was you and not Madam Lestrange in Diagon Alley only hours ago... but now that I'm truly seeing you, I confess that I am... disappointed."

"Are you, now?" I say, putting on a deliberately unaffected tone. "I'm so very sorry."

"I am," he says. "I see now that your escape, your survival until now is not from any special talents and abilities... only incompetence on the part of my own counterparts. But that ends here. The Dark Lord will be so pleased when he discovers I finished you off once and for all."

He raises his wand again, but before he can do anything, I cry out, " _Expelliarmus!_ "

His wand goes flying out of his hands, landing with a clatter near Greyback. Rookwood advances on me, raising his wand and crying, " _Crucio!_ "

I just barely dodge the curse, rushing to point my wand at him and cry out, " _Petrificus Totalus!_ "

He goes as stiff as a board, falling to the floor with a small thud. But in the time it took to take him down, Travers had retrieved his wand. He goes in for the kill for the second time.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

I manage to dodge the curse again, but it only just barely misses me. I need to end this and fast. I Disarm him, sending his wand flying to the other side of the hall. Using my power with wind, I send him flying into the wall opposite. As Travers crashes to the floor, I conjure up water to drench him completely. I then freeze the water, stopping just as his neck. Using my power with earth, I manipulate the stone floor to cover him up until his neck again, creating one more prison to trap him in place, knowing he'll be stuck there until long after the fighting is done. My lips curl into a smirk.

"You sure it's only your counterparts that are incompetent?" I say, before turning to find Rookwood.

My body-bind was too rushed to be fully effective, and as I had expected, he's managed to break out of it and is rising to his feet slowly, his wand back in his hands.

"I must admit, I am impressed," he drawls. "I was expecting my allies to take you down by now. I suppose it's up to me now. I took down your precious blood-traitor. Perhaps you should be thanking me. I'll be the one that brings you back to him."

Anger wells inside of me at an alarming rate. He's the one that hurt Fred. He's the one that did this. And suddenly the desire to make him hurt the way he made me hurt, to give him even a sliver of the pain he put me through is too overwhelming to ignore or resist.

I don't even give him the opportunity to attack. With a great slashing movement with my wand, a wound opens up on his chest, blood spurting out. He clutches onto his chest, stumbling backward as his hand turns red with blood. Raising his wand in his other hand, he points it at me and aims another Killing Curse at me. I just barely dodge it, and without thinking, I point my wand at him and cry out hoarsely, " _Crucio!_ "

Immediately, he drops to the floor, writhing and screaming in pain. The thing about the Cruciatus Curse, I know, is that it only works if you really want your victim to hurt, if you really mean it. I didn't think I really wanted anyone to hurt that bad until I see Rookwood writhing around on the floor the way he is. The realisation of the horrific thing that I had done hits me like a freight train, and immediately I draw back, the curse lifting as guilt rushes through me.

Rookwood is slowly climbing to his feet, smirking at me despite the occasional shudders he gives. "Weak. Just like I expected - "

I don't let him finish. I cast a Stunning Spell on him before he can, before summoning the greatest gust of wind I can muster, sending him flying out of the Entrance Hall and out onto the ground, landing a good twenty feet onto the grounds. With all three of the Death Eaters and Snatchers handled, I am now forced to confront that none of the pain I put them in made me feel any better. I hurt and beat them all, but Fred is still dead. Remus is still dead. Tonks and Felix are still dead.

Draco is approaching me rapidly. "Thank you so - "

"Get away, Malfoy," I say, turning around and speaking sharply. "Just find mummy and daddy and get away from me, Malfoy. I really don't care where you go at this point."

"I - "

"What part of what I'm saying is complicated to you?" I say impatiently. "Your parents are already looking for you. Just find them already. And be fucking careful while you're at it. I'm not always going to be around to save you."

Draco stares at me, blinking, until it finally registers in his mind that I'm trying to save him, saying, "I can't thank you enough - I know I don't - "

"Just  _go_ , Malfoy," I say exasperated. "Before I change my mind."

Draco hesitates for just a moment longer, before swallowing and nodding, darting into the Great Hall in search of his parents. I watch him go for a moment. Forcing myself not to think of my actions during that duel, I run into the Great Hall myself, flinging myself back into the battle.

Voldemort is now duelling McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley all at once, and there's a cold hatred in his face as they weave and duck around him, unable to finish him. Bellatrix is still fighting too, fifty yards away from Voldemort, and like her master, she duels three at once; Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their hardest, but Bellatrix is equal to them. My attention is diverted as a Killing Curse shoots so close to Ginny that she misses death by an inch - 

I change course, running for Bellatrix, but I can only take a few steps before I'm knocked sideways.

"NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!"

Mrs. Weasley throws off her cloak as she runs, freeing her arms. Bellatrix spins on the spot, roaring with laughter at the sight of her new challenger.

"OUT OF MY WAY!" Mrs. Weasley shouts to the three girls, and with a simple swipe of her wand she begins to duel. I watch with terror and slowly mounting elation as Molly Weasley's wand slashes and twists, and Bellatrix Lestrange's smile falters and becomes a snarl. Jets of light flies from both wands and the floor around the witches' feet becomes hot and cracked. Both women are fighting to kill.

"No!" Mrs. Weasley cries as a few students run forward, trying to come to her aid. "Get back! Get back! She is mine!"

Hundreds of people now line the walls, watching the two fights, Voldemort and his three opponents, Bellatrix and Molly. I find myself standing between Ron and Hermione, all of us watching with bated breath, our wands clutched tightly in our hands.

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" Bellatrix taunts, as mad as her master, capering as Molly's curses dance around her. "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

"You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!" Mrs. Weasley screams.

Bellatrix laughs the same exhilarated laugh as her cousin Sirius had given as he toppled backward through the veil, and I know what will happen before it does.

Molly's curse soars beneath Bellatrix's constricted arm and hits her squarely in the chest, directly over her chest. Bellatrix's gloating smile freezes, her eyes seem to bulge; for the tiniest space of time she seems to have realised what has happened, and then she topples, and the watching crowd roars, and Voldemort screams.

It feels as though I'm seeing what happens next in slow motion. I see McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn blasted backward, flailing and writhing through the air, as Voldemort's fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant explodes with the force of a bomb, Voldemort raises his wand and directs it at Molly Weasley.

" _Protego!_ " a voice whose familiarity makes me almost dizzy with relief, and a Shield Charm expands in the middle of the Hall. Voldemort looks around for the source, and Harry seems to appear from thin air, having removed his Invisibility Cloak.

There are yells of shock, cheers, screams on every side of, "Harry!" and "HE'S ALIVE!"

"I knew it," I whisper, but my relief is still so great it is overwhelming and I feel like crying all over again. "I knew it."

The noise is stifled almost at once, however. The crowd is afraid, and silence falls abruptly and completely as Harry and Voldemort look at each other, and begin, at the same moment, to circle each other.

"I don't want anyone else to help," Harry says loudly, and in the total silence his voice carries like a trumpet call. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

Voldemort hisses.

"Potter doesn't mean that," he says, his red eyes wide. "This isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use today, Potter?"

"Nobody," Harry says simply. "There are no more Horcruxes. It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good..."

"One of us?" jeers Voldemort, and his whole body is taut and his red eyes stares, a snake that's about to strike. My heart is beating faster than I thought it could. "You think it will be you, do you, the boy who survive by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?"

"Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?" Harry asks. They're still moving sideways, both of them, in a perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other. "Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn't defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?"

"Accidents!" Voldemort screams, but still he does not strike, and the watching crowd is frozen, as if petrified. "Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and snivelled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!"

"You won't be killing anyone else tonight," Harry says as they circle, and stare into each other's eyes, green into red. "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people - "

"But you did not!"

" - I was meant to, and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you? Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, do you, Riddle?"

"You dare - ?"

"Yes, I dare," says Harry. "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

Voldemort doesn't speak, but prowls in a circle, and I can tell that Harry has him temporarily mesmerised, held back by the faintest possibility that Harry might indeed know some final secret...

"Is it love again?" Voldemort says, his snake's face jeering. "Dumbledore's favourite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him from falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter - and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?"

"Just one thing," Harry says, and still they circle each other, held apart by nothing but that last secret.

"If it is not love that will save you this time," Voldemort says, "you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"

"I believe both," Harry says, and I see shock flit across the snakelike face, though it's instantly dispelled. Voldemort begins to laugh, and the sound is more frightening than his screams. Humourless and insane, it echoes around the silent Hall.

"You think you know more magic than I do?" he says. "Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?"

"Oh, he dreamed of it," Harry says, "but he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you've done."

"You mean he was weak!" screams Voldemort. "Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!"

"No, he was cleverer than you," says Harry, "a better wizard, a better man."

"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"

"You thought you did," Harry replies, "but you were wrong."

For the first time, the watching crowd stirs as the hundreds of people around the walls seem to draw breath as one.

"Dumbledore is dead!" Voldemort seems to hurl the words at the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle as much as Harry. "I have seen it, Potter, he will not return!"

"Yes, Dumbledore is dead," Harry says calmly, "but you didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant."

"What childish dream is this?" Voldemort says, but still he does not strike, his red eyes not wavering from Harry's. I'm hanging onto Harry's every word, confused, trying to piece it all together.

"Severus Snape wasn't yours. Snape was Dumbledore's. Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realised, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?"

Voldemort does not answer. They continue to circle each other like wolves about to tear each other apart.

"Snape's Patronus was a doe," Harry says, "the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realised," he says, as surprise takes hold of me, as Voldemort's nostrils flare. "He asked you to spare her life, didn't he?"

"He desired her, that was all," sneers Voldemort, "but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him - "

"Of course he told you that," Harry says, "but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!"

"It matters not!" Voldemort shrieks, who had followed every word with rapt attention, but now lets out a cackle of mad laughter. "It matters not where Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways you do not understand!

"Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy - I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!"

"Yeah, it did," Harry says. "You're right. But before you try to kill me, I'd advise you think what you've done... think, and try for some remorse, Riddle..."

"What is this?"

Of all the things that Harry has said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing has shocked Voldemort like this. My heart in my mouth, I see his pupils contract to thin slits, see the skin around his eyes whiten.

"It's your one last chance," says Harry, "it's all you've got left... I've seen what you'll be otherwise... be a man... try... try for some remorse..."

"You dare?" Voldemort says again.

"Yes, I dare," Harry says, "because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle."

Voldemort's hand is trembling on the Elder Wand. Somehow, I can feel that the moment, the final moment that ends all of this, is only seconds away.

"That wand still isn't working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore."

"He killed - "

"Aren't you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore's death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die, undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!"

"But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!" Voldemort's voice shakes with malicious pleasure. "I stole the wand from its last master's tomb. I removed it against the last master's wishes. Its power is mine!"

"You still don't get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn't enough! Holding it, using it, doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard... the Elder Wand recognised a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realising exactly what he'd done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."

Voldemort's chest rises and falls rapidly.

"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

Blank shock shows in Voldemort's face for a moment, but then it's gone.

"But what does it matter?" he says softly. "Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: we duel on skill alone... and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy..."

"But you're too late," Harry says. "You've missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took his wand from him."

Harry twitches the wand in his hands, the wand that once belonged to Draco Malfoy. It seems as though the eyes of everyone in the Hall are on that wand.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Harry whispers. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

A red-glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appears over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both Harry's and Voldemort's faces at once. I can hear their voices shriek curses at once.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The bang is like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupt between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marks the point where the spells collided. I see Harry's red jet meet Voldemort's green, see the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air towards the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with that unwavering skill of a Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort falls backward, his arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Marvolo Riddle hits the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Lord Voldemort is dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stands with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy's corpse.

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended. And then the tumult breaks out in the Hall as the screams and cheers and roars of watchers rent the air. The fierce new sun dazzles the window as Ron, Hermione, and I are the first to break out of the circle, first to reach him, our arms wrapping around him, our incomprehensible shouts probably deafening him. Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna are there, and then all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and I can't understand, can hardly hear a word that anyone is shouting.

The sun rises steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazes with life and light. I feel oddly disconnected from the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. I hear parts of conversations, news of the Imperiused up and down the country coming back to themselves, the Death Eaters are fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban are being released at this very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt has been named temporary Minister for Magic.

They move Voldemort's body and lay it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of the over fifty people who had died fighting him. McGonagall replaces the House tables, but nobody is sitting according to House anymore. All are jumbled together, teacher and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lays recovering in the corner, and Grawp peers in through the smashed window, and people are throwing food into his laughing mouth.

And a few feet away, there it is; Fred's body, where it had always been. Only George is at his body at the moment. The rest of the Weasleys are sitting a few feet away, Ginny's head on her mother's shoulder. I hesitate for a moment, nervous about intruding on George's moment with his twin brother. But I know I'm nervous about more than just intruding, and that I must see him eventually.

 _I can be brave,_ I think as I walk slowly to Fred's body.  _I can be brave. I can be brave, I can be brave, I can be brave._

When I reach Fred's body, George looks at me and says nothing, but the look on his face seems to give me the courage to step closer, until I'm kneeling beside his body, my hands going tentatively to his shoulders. He looks the same as ever, really. The explosion doesn't seem to have done any physical damage to him that I can see, besides the fact that he looks a bit bloodied and roughed up. And the ghost of that smile is still there, still on his face, the way I had seen it so many times. He looks alive, still. His hair and clothes seem oddly straightened out, though, and I get the distinct impression Mrs. Weasley had straightened them out in that fussy way she couldn't help but so sometimes. Not even after death. The thought makes tears well up in my eyes again.

I trace circles on his shoulders, before lowering my head until it's on his chest, taking a deep breath, as though breathing him in.

"I love you," I whisper. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you."

I repeat it softly, a mantra, until I can't bring myself to say it any longer. Then I just sit still, my head on his chest, feeling the fabric of his clothes on my face, and the morning sun shining down on us, and - and -

And a heartbeat. So faint that it's almost impossible to detect, so faint I think at first that I've imagined it, but  _there_. I move away from his chest, staring at him as though I can't believe what I've felt, before moving my hand to his wrist. It's faint, but I can feel a pulse. I look up at George, my eyes wide. The faintest of smiles is on his face.

"Madam Pomfrey says the Healers at St. Mungo's are going to have a look at him," he says, "but that there's a chance. A slim chance, she said, but... a chance is a chance."

I let the words register slowly, tears brimming in my eyes all over again. I look back down at Fred. I bring my head down to his chest again, one more time, so that I can feel his heartbeat once more, make sure that it's still there, faint as it is. A chance. And I know better than to get my hopes up, I know better than to think that he might come back, but I can't help the way my heart lifts. Maybe, just maybe...

I move to whisper in his ear, "I love you, Fred. I love you so much. If there's any way you can hear this, I want you to know. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Then I kiss his forehead, his hand, and his forehead once more, before forcing myself to move away from him and stand up. I face George, who has already moved to his feet himself. For a moment, we just stare at each other.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I should've come earlier, I - "

"It's okay," George says. "You needed time. I understand."

I smile faintly, and George pulls me into a tight hug, which I return just as tightly. He nods at me once when we pull away, understanding all over his face, and I return the gesture. I look over at the other Weasleys, who are all smiling at me faintly. I smile back at them weakly, nodding at them, before turning away.

I walk down the Great Hall again. I see Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he eats, surrounding by a knot of fervent admirers. The sight makes me smile. Along the aisle between the tables I walk, I spot the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they're supposed to be there, but nobody pays them any mind. I keep walking until I finally find Ron and Hermione, moving to sit beside them.

"Haven't seen Harry, I suppose?" I say quietly.

"No," Ron says. "None of these people will leave him the hell alone, will they? Everyone wants to talk to the Chosen One right now."

"Poor bloke," I murmur.

A few seconds after I say, this Harry's voice sounds from in front of us, muttering, "It's me. Will you come with me?"

The three of us stand at once, and together, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I leave the Great Hall, Harry pulling off the Invisibility Cloak once we're out of the Hall. Great chunks are missing from the marble staircase, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as we climb.

Somewhere in the distance, we can hear Peeves zooming through the corridors, singing a victory song of his own composition:

_We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one,_

_And Voldy's gone mouldy, so now let's have fun!_

"Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn't it?" Ron says, pushing open a door to let Harry, Hermione, and I through.

Happiness will come, I'd like to think, but at the moment, it's muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of losing Remus and Tonks and even Fred, despite my small hope he might come back, pierces like a physical wound every few steps. I also feel a stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep like I've never known. But still, I want an explanation from Harry about what everything he had said to Voldemort meant, what had happened when he had went to sacrifice himself in the Forbidden Forest.

And an explanation Harry gives, recounting all that he had seen from Snape's memory, what had happened in the forest, and Ron, Hermione, and I haven't even begun to express all our shock and amazement, when we at last arrive at the place to which we've been walking, though none of us had mentioned this as a destination.

Since I've last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's study has been knocked aside; it stands lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and I wonder whether it would even be able to distinguish passwords anymore.

"Can we go up?" Harry asks the gargoyle.

"Feel free," it groans.

We clamber over the gargoyle and onto the spiral stone steps that move slowly upward like an escalator. I push open the door at the top. I have only one, brief second to look around at the surprisingly in tact office, before an earsplitting noise makes me cry out and think of curses and returning Death Eaters and Voldemort's rebirth - 

In actuality, it's applause. All around the walls, the headmasters of Hogwarts are giving Harry a standing ovation. They wave their hats and in some case their wigs, they reach through their frames to grip each other's hands; they dance up and down on their chairs in which they had been painted. Dilys Derwent sobs unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue is waving his ear-trumpet; and Sir Phineas is crying out, in his high, reedy voice, "And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Where would we be if I had not helped the Knight girl escape captivity? Let our contribution not be forgotten!"

"Glad to know you didn't just do it for the credit, Sir Phineas," I say, rolling my eyes.

I look over at Harry, before following his line of sight to the man who stands in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster's chair. Tears are sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, pride and gratitude emanating from him.

At last, Harry holds up his hands and the portraits fall respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directs his words to Dumbledore, though, and seems to be choosing them with enormous care.

"The thing that was hidden in the Snitch," he begins, and I know he means the Resurrection Stone. "I dropped it in the forest. I don't know exactly where, but I'm not going to go looking for it again. Do you agree?"

"My dear boy, I do," Dumbledore says, while his fellow portraits look confused and curious. "A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?"

"No one," Harry confirms, and Dumbledore nods in satisfaction.

"I'm going to keep Ignotus' present, though," Harry says, and Dumbledore beams.

"But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on!"

"And then there's this."

Harry holds up the Elder Wand. I don't even realise that I'm looking at it with reverence until I see the uneasy way Harry is looking at Ron, Hermione, and I, look over at them, and realise my expression must have been mirroring theirs.

"I don't want it," says Harry.

"What?" Ron says loudly. "Are you mental?"

"I know it's powerful," Harry says wearily. "But I was happier with mine. So..."

He rummages in the pouch that hangs around his neck, and pulls out the two halves of holly still just connected by the finest threat of phoenix feather. I understand immediately what Harry means to do. Hermione had said that it could not be repaired, that the damage was too severe. If this, the most powerful wand ever created, cannot fix his wand, then nothing can.

He lays the broken wand upon the headmaster's desk, touches it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and says, " _Reparo!_ "

As his wand reseals, red sparks fly out of its end. Somehow, I know immediately that Harry has succeeded. He picks up the holly and phoenix wand slowly, and something about the look on Harry's face lets me know that the job is done.

"I'm putting the Elder Wand," he tells Dumbledore, who's watching him with enormous affection and admiration, "back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won't it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That'll be the end of it."

Dumbledore nodded. They smile at each other.

"Are you sure?" Ron says, the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looks at the Elder Wand.

"Harry's right," I say firmly, any trace of desire and interest I might have have in the Elder Wand now stamped out. It's more trouble than it's worth.

"I think so, too," Hermione says quietly.

"That wand's more trouble than it's worth," Harry says, echoing my own thoughts. "And quite honestly," he turns away from the painted portraits, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."

I find myself agreeing with him. I see no appeal in the glory of an especially powerful wand or anything of the sort. What I  _do_ see appeal in is food, and a long, long,  _long_ sleep. The war might be over, but it's a long, difficult road ahead to deal with the after effects. The only thing for it is to keep marching forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Hazel's story is almost upon us. The end consists of two separate epilogues and you, the readers, get to choose which one you wish to have happened.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	43. Epilogue One

**Until the Very End**

**Epilogue One**

 

Hazel Knight walks through the graveyard, the wind blowing through her hair as she goes, leaves crunching under her feet as she steps on them. She doesn't think it's quite right, to make that sort of noise in a graveyard, but there's no avoiding all the leaves, so she murmurs an apology to the dead and continues on her way. There's a cold breeze blowing about the graveyard, indicating that autumn is coming close to an end. Soon, it will be winter, and snow will cover the ground, and everything will begin anew.

This is what Hazel needs. To begin anew.

There are many names she recognises as she walks by. Too many. One day, she will have honoured each and every one of them. Not a single lost soul here will go by forgotten, unmourned. But not today. Today, she is visiting only two graves. Finding the graves takes a long time. She has only been to this graveyard twice. Once, on the day of the memorial. Then again, when the world had been crumbling and she had tried, shaking, to come to terms with what had happened, but she was so weak, so full of despair that she hadn't even been able to set foot in the graveyard.

Today is different. Today is different and every other day after that will be different. She has remembered she is brave. She has remembered she is strong. She has remembered that she can endure. She will be fine. But she has to let go.

As she walks, Hazel thinks of the funeral. She thinks of all the caskets, lined row after row in the newly made graveyard near Hogsmeade. All the dead who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, save those whose families had wished they were buried elsewhere. All in one place. All lowered into the ground row after row, until there was nothing but the grass and tombstones.

She had thought she would cry, but she didn't. She had reached a point that tears were no longer enough. Tears no longer meant anything. She was full of so much grief, so much  _emptiness_ , that tears were nothing. Hazel simply stood there, still as a statue, as the ones she cared about left her again, lowering deep into the ground, gone once and for all.

Finally, Hazel finds the first grave. She doesn't really know what the standard procedure is at a graveyard, but she sits down in front of it. Four years have passed since the funeral, but the engraving on the headstone is still easy to read:

_REMUS JOHN LUPIN_

_18 MARCH, 1960 - 2 MAY, 1998_

_It is the quality of one's convictions that determine success, not the number of those that follow you._

It's a rather fitting quotation, Hazel thinks, to put on the grave of a man whose convictions were strong but whose life was full of those who doubted and feared him based off nothing but their own prejudices.

Hazel closes her eyes, breathing deeply, slowly. Every other time she has tried to do this, to come to terms with what has happened, she can only imagine his body, scarred and aged prematurely, rotting underneath the ground. Today, she does not do this. She imagines him as she knew him; smiling and kind and welcoming and warm and fatherly, though he did not realise he was any of these things. She imagines his light brown hair, his kind green eyes, his warm smile. She imagines him, hugging her tentatively and screaming at her when fear had once taken him over and touching her shoulders gently months afterwards with joy written all over his face. Remus Lupin, she knows, is much more than this headstone they have placed, and she wishes she had realised this sooner.

Hazel opens her eyes. The headstone is still staring back at her, grey and cold and indifferent, and the pain is still there, dull and always there. She doesn't think it will ever go away. She's starting to be okay with that. She will live with it. She will do just fine with or without it. The pain, she decides, is just proof that he had been here, and that he had mattered, and that, no matter what he worried, he had been loved. He's  _still_ loved.

"Hi, Uncle Remus," she finally says, out loud. "It's been a long time, hasn't it? I've been an awful goddaughter, I'll admit. I should have visited you more. I knew it before, I know it now. It was just... it was so much. I just kept thinking about what you looked like when I saw you... lying there... you could have been asleep. And I'd keep hoping, Remus, that you would just... wake up. Your eyes would just open and you'd ask what you'd missed and you'd just jump right back to it and that would be that. You would go back to being my godfather and everything would be a little more right.

"But then you never woke back up, and I didn't know what to do," Hazel continues. A tear brims in her eye. She lets it fall. She's tired of holding back. "Everything just... everything stopped making sense. You made things  _sane_. You - you were always there. No matter what happened. You were always around. The world could've been ending, but Remus is still there. But then you were gone.

"You were the closest thing I'd ever had to a dad, you know. Of course, there was Mr. Weasley, and there aren't words for how much I love and appreciate him, but you... you were different. You were the closest connection to my dad, sure, but it was more than that. Everything I had ever pictured a dad to be, that's what you were for me. Every step of the way. I know you always thought you weren't good enough for me or anyone, but it's not true. It never was.

"Everyone's doing okay. Everyone's sort of taking care of each other. We're rebuilding, we're learning to grow despite it all. It's been hard, but I think we're going to make it.

"Teddy's doing great. You should see how much he's grown in just four year. He stays with me in my flat on Mondays and Wednesdays - I've got my own flat now, Remus. I'm a proper grown-up now. Those nights are always nice. He's having fun with his abilities as a Metamorphmagus. He'll change all his facial features into all sorts of combinations. It's enough to keep someone entertained for hours. We're working on getting him to take requests. It's a work in progress, but we'll get there.

"Those nights with Teddy help me out more than I think anyone realises. I... I've had bad thoughts these past few years, Remus. But then I get to go, 'if I kill myself, I won't get to play with Teddy tomorrow' or 'How are they going to explain what happened to him?' and as silly as that might seem, it's enough for me to stay alive a little longer. It's mad, Remus; I've spent years and years trying not to die, and now I'm looking for any reason to stay alive still.

"The last four years have been... bad for me, Remus. Losing you, losing Fred, losing everyone in that war... and then there was all this shit that happened to me, from being tortured for two straight months at Malfoy Manor, to all these awful things I had to see and live through - hell, even what the goddamn Martins put me through for seventeen years... I always pushed all of that to the back of my mind, because there was always some greater purpose we needed to focus on, but then all of a sudden, there wasn't one anymore, so I was forced to feel the effects of everything that's happened, and it was just... it was all so much. I didn't know what to do. Merlin, if you had been alive, you would've known exactly what to do to make me feel better, to make me feel like everything was alright, but you weren't alive, and it wan't alright, and I... I handled it badly."

Hazel thinks back to the days and weeks and months of isolation, the times she spent drinking herself unconscious, the missteps and the mistakes, the nights spent crying herself asleep, and worst of all, the nights spent feeling numb to the world. She looks down at her hands, feeling regret well up inside of her, but then looks back up at the grave, bracing herself to move forward.

 _Now's the time to move on from regret,_ she reminds herself.  _I can do it, I can do it, I can do it._

"But things are going to be different. I'm going to change the world, I'm going to make it better for me and everyone else. I'm realising that that's just what I was meant to do. It always has been.

"And you know something, Remus? I think I'm going to be alright. I really do."

She pauses for a moment, letting the words float through the air and sink in slowly, before speaking again. "I love you, Remus. I always will. I'll come back to see you, I promise."

Hazel gets to her feet, pulls out her wand, and conjures up a wreath of flowers before his grave. She turns to Tonks' grave beside him, the grave reading:

_Nymphadora Tonks Lupin_

_3 August, 1973 - 2 May, 1998_

_And this is how the fight goes; the secret is, the ones who can still smile are the ones who win._

"I'll come back for you, too," Hazel says.

As though to punctuate this promise, Hazel conjures up another wreath of flowers before her grave, as well. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to turn and walk away. She walks through the graveyard until the finds the second grave, reading:

_FRED GIDEON WEASLEY_

_1 April, 1978 - 15 May, 1998_

_Everything will be alright as long as you can still laugh._

There had been a chance that he'd survive, she remembers. A slim chance, but a chance all the same. And after all she had been through, a part of her had known better than to get her hopes up, but she had been so young then, only seventeen, and so in love it made her head spin. She couldn't help but hope that everything would work out, that out of all the losses in this way, this one would come back to her.

The Healers at St. Mungo's, to their credit, did all they could for him. They said that if he made it past a critical period where he was at his weakest, his survival was guaranteed. There were Healers working on him practically day and night, trying to revive him, but in the end, it was for nothing. He died thirteen days after the fighting was done, a day short of the critical period of two weeks. Two days after her eighteenth birthday. It had felt like the whole world had played some cruel trick on them, making them think there was a chance before snatching it away at the last moment. Hazel remembers thinking that she would never move on from the grief she felt the day he died.

Now, she sits down cross-legged in front of the grave and stares at the tombstone silently. There's a lump forming in her throat already, and she has to take a moment to learn to speak around it.

"Fred," she finally says softly. "Fred... it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

She pauses. There's no response. She doesn't know what she expected. Then again, if anyone was to burst up from their grave and start having a full conversation with her, it would be Fred. The wind is picking up a little, blowing her hair all around and the leaves past her. She continues.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, my love. I would've... I would've... but losing you was so hard, I couldn't... I couldn't handle it. I was in love with you, Fred, I was so in love with you... I still am, the feeling hasn't gone away... and when I saw you after that explosion, it tore me up... I didn't think I'd survive it, Fred. And then they told me there was a chance that you'd survive it and - and I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, I knew it, then, too... but a chance of having you back... I couldn't help myself. So I hoped and I hoped... and when you died, it felt like losing you a second time. It almost destroyed me. I still don't even know how I got through the funeral."

Everyone thought she was so strong, she knows. They all thought she was so strong for being able to hold it together the way she had, despite all the loss and death and chaos. How strong she must be, to get through that funeral without so much as a tear coming to her eyes. What they had not realised was that no tears could accurately portray her grief-stricken state, her rapidly crumbling insides. No, it had taken a breakdown and a period of nothingness, of silence, of stillness from her for people to realise.

"I almost came, once. I was right outside the gates, I was going to go through. But... but I wasn't ready. I couldn't handle it. Not yet."

She pauses, before taking a deep breath and saying calmly, "But I think I am now. I'm ready.

"I suppose I should tell you about how everything's been," she continues. "We're all surviving well enough, considering everything that's happened. We're all relying on each other more than ever to get by. It's brought us all closer together; we just all hate that this is what it took. But we're getting by. It's been hard, though, Fred. There have been moments where it felt like none of us would make it. And it wasn't only because of losing you - I don't want you to feel guilty, wherever you are - but... you mean so much to us. We all love you so much, so it was hard. There was one time... when Mrs. Weasley called George by your name... that one stuck with us for a long time. But I think we're all going to be okay. I really do.

"George is alright. This is the first time I've been able to honestly say that in four years, so this is saying something. But he is. He took it harder than anyone. He felt like he'd lost his other half. He's been spending all these years just trying to feel like a whole person again. And things have been... hard between us - me and George. The unimaginable happened; it all became so complicated after. It felt like you were the glue for us and then we were falling apart."

Hazel remembers the beginning, when she had lived with George in the flat on top of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, helping him restore it to its former glory, along with Ron. She remembers the tense silences that would last hours between them, the screaming arguments that would start over the smallest things, the times both of them had spent the whole day in their beds (in Hazel's case, the sofa).

And she remembers one awful night, when George had brought home bottles of firewhiskey, and what had happened after. She knows it had gone too far, but they were drunk, and George thought Hazel is the closest he'll get to Fred again, and George looked so much like his dead twin in the dark. They had stopped, horrified at the realisation of what they were doing, before they could do anything unforgivable, but doing anything, no matter how small, was too far and they knew it.

The next morning, Hazel moved out and lived with Harry (it had been before Ginny had moved in with him, and Harry, always welcoming, never judgemental, had let her in without question) until she found a flat of her own a month later. She and George didn't look at each other for three weeks, let alone speak to each other. She imagined what Fred would do if he knew, if he saw, and threw up for reasons outside of the Firewhiskey she had consumed. She realised that it's no use to think about that, because Fred and dead and gone and is never coming back, and threw up again.

Nearly two months later, they ran into each other in the hallway in the Burrow. They were both stunned into stillness, though they shouldn't have been. The Burrow is not that large of a house. A minute later, they were inside George's old room (she did not think of it as  _his_ old room, too, because then she will see him lying in his old bed, laughing loudly at some joke, or see him sitting cross-legged on the floor, going through boxes of old Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products, pulling out abandoned products with interest), staring at each other in silence. A minute later, they both said, "Sorry," at the same time, though they don't know who exactly they're apologising to, what exactly they're apologising for. They just both know that  _there's so damn much_ to be sorry about. A minute later, they were sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, sobbing together. Neither of them cried at Fred's funeral. But as they hold each other, sitting opposite Fred's old bed, it's like seeing his lifeless body lowered to the ground over and over and over.

After that day, Hazel and George are dedicated to restoring their friendship to its former strength. At first, it was because it was the only way they could think of for making up for past sins. Slowly, though, they realised they had both needed then friendship to get through all their grief. It was all they had ever really needed to do.

"But we're good, me and Georgie. We're always going to be good. I won't stand for anything else. George is okay. He's going to be okay, Fred, I promise. I'll look after him. He and Angelina are getting together. She's been helping him a lot. She makes him so happy, Fred, you should see it. He smiles more easily around her. It's nice to see, it really is.

"And I'm okay, too - at least, I think I'm going to be. And I mean that, too. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. It's been a long four years. They've been hard. But I made it, which I think is saying something. If I made it through those years, I think I can make it through anything.

"Oh, remember what you said to me, about me always wanting to get rid of the bad guys? I suppose you were always right, but not in the way we were both thinking. I was an Auror for a while, but the whole thing felt sort of... unsatisfying, I suppose, for me. You know, hours and hours of paperwork every day, and it really didn't feel like I was helping anyone at all. Ron said it felt like we did more to stop dark wizards as teenagers that we are as Auror, and that really just sums up how I felt. I ended up feeling all lost, because all I'd ever seriously thought about was being an Auror. After a while, though, I realised what I needed to do was take down a different kind of bad guy. Me and Harry grew up in these awful homes for our whole childhood. No one ever did anything to make sure we were okay. No government officials or anything really checked on us ever. It was only you and the rest of the Order who really stuck up for us. How many other wizards have to live like that, too, with no one to help them? Hell, even Muggles have something to protect kids in situations like that, even if it doesn't always work the best. And there are still all sorts of magical beings who get mistreated - you know, werewolves, house-elves, centaurs, goblins - and all this prejudice that still exists against Muggle-borns and Squibs, and we're still not doing enough to help them. Anyway, the point is, I'm working with the Auror office and the rest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and started up a sector of the Ministry to help people in situations like that. It's called the Association for Magical Protection and Progress. I know it probably sounds like going from one boring office job to another, but it feels like I'm actually doing something this time. And there are exciting moments. And I'm also the youngest Head of an office in Ministry history - me! I can hardly believe it sometimes.

"Speaking of which, the Martins are doing alright. I found them in Ireland the week after the battle and restored their memories. Gabriel and Daisy moved back to Privet Drive - big surprise. Not Candy, though. She liked Ireland. She's living there now. I visit her sometimes. We really have become good friends; she's helped me a lot.

"I made a lot of mistakes over the years, Fred. I didn't know how to react to losing you, because you were so different... you... you, Fred, you're a blessing dressed as a hurricane," she continues, and she can't keep the fond smile from crossing her face. "Or a hurricane dressed as a blessing. I don't know, it's hard to tell sometimes... most of the time... all the time. It's hard to tell sometimes... most of the time... all the time. It's hard to come back to losing someone like that. But I've found my way. I love you, Fred, so much, and I always will, but I can't keep living the way I have. I need to move forward, I need to be better. And I think I'll be able to do it from now on."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. "I love you, Fred. I wish I had told you every time I had a chance. I love you, I love you, I love you. I'll always love you. That's all I know. And I hope you know it, too, wherever you are."

She opens her eyes again. The tomb stares back at her. She refuses to be scared of it. "I'll see you again soon. I promise. I might bring George with me, too. He hasn't been to see you yet, either, has he? It might be easier for him if I'm there."

With this declaration out in the open, she takes a moment to brace herself, before getting to her feet. She pulls out her wand, conjures another wreath of flowers on his tomb, and places her wand back in the pocket of her robes. She feels more at peace now than she has in four years. Oddly enough, this doesn't feel like as much of a final goodbye as it should. She knows she'll see him again, one day, maybe that's why. Still, before that day, she has a life to live. A full life, one worth living. Fred, Remus, Felix, her parents, everyone... it was all they wanted for her. And now it's what she wants for herself, too. Nothing will stop her. Not this time.

"See you soon," she says again.

With that, she wills herself to turn away and walk back the way she came, through the graves and out of the graveyard. Once she's outside the gates again, she turns and looks back over her shoulder. Everything is the way it was. Nothing changes in death. Life's possibilities, however, never cease.

 _Well_ , she thinks to herself, a small smile forming on her face, her heart lighter than she can remember it ever feeling,  _best not to waste them._

And with that thought in her mind, she turns away, twists on the spot, and Disapparates, moving towards light, towards hope, towards those endless possibilities. She Disappeates, and it's towards life.


	44. Epilogue Two

**Until the Very End**

**Epilogue Two**

 

She stays with George in the beginning, in the flat just above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Originally, she sleeps on the sofa, but then one day, George drags her over to Fred's room and throws her on the bed, insisting that Fred would be perfectly fine with her sleeping in his room, and so is George, for that matter. She catches the smell of him on the sheets, dark berries, mint, a faint hint of sweets, and breathes it in, trying not to let out a sob as she exhales.

When they're not caught up in Auror training, she and Ron help George restore the shop to its former glory. As a result, she's so busy that she hardly ever has time to think, and she likes it better this way. Remus' death is still heavy on her, threatening to suffocate her, and though her scars are a little more faded and the white streak in her hair does not stand out so vividly against the black anymore, she has not forgotten her time at Malfoy Manor.

All in all, Hazel Knight does not like to think about anything but what is right ahead of her.

By the looks of it, they're all a little concerned for her, and she knows they want to help, but everyone's so caught up in their own grief, in their own problems, in the rebuilding of their own lives and their own sanity, that there's not all that much they do. She's not mad at them for this. She understands why.

Besides, she does not want to talk about what is behind her.

The one thing, she decides, that is keeping her from going completely insane is the fact that Fred is alive. The blow from the explosion had not killed him, but it had brought him into a coma that the healers are trying their best to wake him from. The beginning had been a time of uncertainty; there was a critical period of two weeks where Fred had been at his weakest. Fred needed to make it through those two weeks to survive. Hazel remembers the joy, the relief everyone had felt when the two weeks had past and Fred was still alive and with them.

The blow had caused severe head trauma, and as a result, along with some nasty scars on his body, he'll have amnesia. The healers at St. Mungo's don't know exactly how much he'll remember and how much he'll forget, but judging from the force of the explosion, they tell her with sympathetic smiles, they'll be surprised if he remembers much of anything.

Hazel thinks about this every time she visits him in St. Mungo's. She stares down at his face, peaceful and sleeping and unaware and chokes back a dry sob. She looks around at the reception area, the pristineness of the place, thinks of the healers little smiles as they told her he was likely to forget most of his life, and considers breaking everything in sight. She thinks that Fred will wake up and likely not love her anymore, and she's envisioning glass vases shattering.

She thinks that she will see him smile and hear him laugh again, and the pictures of destruction disappear like they had never existed.

She does not sleep much. The nightmares do not go away with the way. Often, she wakes in the middle of the night gasping and screaming, before clamping her hand over her mouth and praying George had not heard her.

He always does. He always comes into the room and sits down on the foot of the bed, watching her carefully. He waits until she moves over to him to put a brotherly, comforting arm around her, and doesn't press her about her nightmares. Sometimes she talks about it, sometimes she doesn't. He doesn't say much. Mostly, he tells her jokes and doesn't leave until he feels she had laughed enough.

George has his fair share of nightmares, too. When she wakes up from the sound of his screaming and crying, Hazel gets up and tries to go into his room, but it's always locked. She could always use magic to get in, but that reminds her of the way the Martins always used to barge into her little room after they had already beaten her down, so she never does it. Instead, Hazel sits down against the doorway and drums out some of his favourite songs on the doors in hopes to cheer him up. She doesn't leave until he starts drumming in time with her, because that always means he feels better.

 

***

 

The months go by. Hazel isn't sure if she likes being an Auror. She likes who she's working with, but she feels that she does hours of paperwork every day and at the end of the day, she didn't really do anything to help anyone. She brings forth the subject to Harry and Ron.

"I can't lie, I dunno if I like it much, either," Ron confesses. "Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of stopping dark wizards from getting power, but it feels like we did more to stop dark wizards in school with limited knowledge and limited resources and limited...  _everything_ , really, than we are now."

"Exactly!" she says, relieved she isn't alone. "Harry, what do you think?"

Seeming slightly uncomfortable, Harry says, "I dunno. I mean, I can't lie, it is pretty boring, but... I like it - or, at least, I feel like this is where I should be. I feel like I belong here. It's different from anything we've ever seen before; maybe you just need more time to adjust?"

They've been training for months. Hazel doubts it's more time to adjust that they need. Taking one look at Ron, it's obvious he feels the same way, and being an Auror is all they've ever really thought of, so they decide to give it another chance.

When Hazel brings forth her concerns to Hermione while she visits her as she completes her final year at Hogwarts (no one was surprised when she announced she wanted to officially finish school, nor were they surprised when she was made Head Girl, and continued to be top of her year), all she has to say is, "See, I told you being an Auror isn't as great as it was cracked up to be. I must've told Ron a thousand times before he started training, did he want to listen to me?"

"This seems to be turning into a conversation you should be having with your boyfriend," Hazel says pointedly, raising her eyebrows.

As Hazel had expected, Hermione stops her 'I told you so' to turn sheepish yet pleased. Ron and Hermione are so happy together, Hazel can't feel anything but happy for the both of them, even when they are almost disgustingly in love at times (even when she can't look at them without thinking about Fred, still unconscious and still unlikely to remember a thing about her when he wakes up, but she doesn't allow herself to think about that one for too long).

 

***

 

She visits Candy, sometimes, in Ireland. Hazel had gone to find the Martins in Ireland the week after the battle of Hogwarts, restoring their memories (Hermione had gone with her; afterwards, the two of them went to Australia to find Hermione's parents. That one had taken much longer, but Hermione was so upset at the prospect of never seeing them again that Hazel refused to give up until the day they finally found them and Hermione could restore their memories). Gabriel and Daisy had moved back to Privet Drive as soon as they could, but Candy liked Ireland so much that she refused to leave. After a four hour long screaming match, Gabriel and Daisy finally have in, and Candy is now attending school in Ireland, living in a pleasant flat in downtown Belfast. Hazel never goes to see Gabriel and Daisy. Candy never asks her to. The two of them are much closer than any of them had ever expected to be, but Hazel finds she's grateful for it all the same.

 

***

 

One day, just under a year and a half after the Battle of Hogwarts, George Apparates in the middle of the flat, making Hazel jump a foot in the air and pull out her wand, pointing it at his neck until she realises who it is.

"Jesus, George!" she says, stuffing her wand in the waistband of her jeans. "How many times have I told you not to do that?"

George ignores her.

"Fred's back. He just came back from St. Mung - "

Hazel's already gone. She Disapparates so fast, barely concentrating, that it's a miracle she doesn't Splinch herself. She's not thinking Destination, Determination, Deliberation, the way she was taught nearly three years ago in school. She's thinking one thing and one thing only as she moves:  _Fred_.

In the end, that takes her to where she needs to go. She ends up on the front steps of the Burrow. She has a copy of the keys to the house, so she unlocks the door and steps inside, just as George Apparates behind her and walks in after her. She hears muffled voices coming from the sitting room. She follows the sounds of the voice, and then - 

 _There he is._ He's surrounded by his family; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley on either side of the wheelchair he's sitting on, still bandaged-up; Bill and Charlie in front of him, Fleur hanging back a little bit behind the former; Ron standing a few steps away from him, apparently studying him so closely it's as if he's verifying if he's actually real; George going to stand at his side, right with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; and Percy hanging back father than anyone else, uncertainty written all over his face, as though he's not sure he deserves to be there. And the centre of all of this is him, it's him, it's Fred. He's still wearing the robe they give patients at St. Mungo's. He's looking around at the scene with an expression of what can only be described as uncertainty and even fear, and it's then that she remembers that he likely doesn't remember anything or anyone. Not even his own family.

His gaze lands on her and stays there, and Hazel feels her breath catch in her throat. Oh, God, she never stopped loving him, not for a moment. If anything, it's only gotten stronger with time, because all he's doing is looking at her, but her heart is racing and she's overcome with a desire to walk forward and hug him and never let go, to kiss him and tell him she loves him over and over and over - but she can't. She knows she can't. So she just stands there and stares back as he stares at her with an unreadable expression on his face, her heart in her mouth.

The moment is interrupted as Harry and Hermione burst into the room, out of breath, the latter saying, holding up a brown leather-bound book as she says, "Harry was giving me my birthday present easy when we heard - we came as soon as we could - it's so nice to see you, Fred - "

Fred looks stunned that Hermione so much as knows his name. "Erm - "

Hermione seems to remember Fred's amnesia, and becomes more hesitant, unsure of what to say, of how much he remembers. "Do you - erm - "

"Fred remembers very little," Mrs. Weasley interjects, smiling kindly, but despite her obvious happiness and relief, Hazel thinks she can detect a little sadness, "This all feels very new to him."

"Oh," Hermione says simply. "Oh."

If she was Fred, Hazel thinks, she wouldn't want to be in this situation, with all these people surrounding her, claiming to be the people closest to her, with little to no memory of any of them. It must be overwhelming. She'd wand to be somewhere with less people, somewhere she'd feel less like she was being surrounded, somewhere she could think more clearly about her current situation.

"Er - maybe we should - " Hazel begins, but Fred speaks before she can complete her sentence.

"Look - this is - I - I'm glad you're all happy to see me," he says, a little awkwardly. "But this is - this is a lot to take in. If you're the people I'm closest to, I want to talk to all of you. Just... just not like this," he continues, gesturing around the room. "Let's do this one at a time. We can do it in my old bedroom here."

"We shared it," George says suddenly, looking down at Fred. "I can lead you there."

"Okay," Fred says. "Good, I wanted to talk to you first... you... you told me your name is G-George, right?"

George's relief is all over his body. "Yeah. Follow me, now."

Fred smiles, looking almost proud of himself. Mrs. Weasley goes to push the wheelchair, but Fred is already getting to his feet before she can.

"Oh, but Fred - you're too weak - "

"I don't need the wheelchair," Fred says simply.

"But - Fred, it won't be for long, it's just because you've just woken up - " Mr. Weasley says, reaching to take Fred by the shoulder, but Fred takes a step back, looking wary.

"I don't need the chair," Fred says again, more shortly this time. "Even the Healers said I don't need it. They were just following procedures."

Mr. Weasley manages to hide, with great difficulty, the hurt on his face. He nods once. "If you're sure."

"I am," Fred nods once.

The tension in the air is almost palpable. George is the one who breaks it, looking to Fred and saying, "Follow me. I'll show you the way."

Fred nods, and George leads the way out of the sitting room. When they're at the threshold, Fred looks at George and says, genuinely curious, "Why have you only got one ear?"

George looks at him for a moment, stunned; then, his face splits into a wide grin. "Funny you ask... it's actually a funny story, once you get over the wildly horrific bits..."

And with George already launching into a recount of how he lost his ear, they disappear through the threshold, their voices slowly fading away into nothingness. Hazel smiles to herself, just a little, at the exchange. They're gone for over half an hour, before George finally reappears in the sitting room.

"He wants to talk to everyone here. He doesn't care about the order, it just... need to be one at a time. And hey... be patient with him, alright? Think about what he's going through right now."

The Weasleys look over at Hazel, but she holds out her hands from where she's been leaning against the wall. "No, no, no, you're his family, you should go first."

"Oh, Hazel, dear, you should know you're family too - " Mrs. Weasley begins.

"Not to him, not now," Hazel says, acting as though the thought doesn't break her heart. "It should be all of you first."

"Well... if you're sure - "

"I am," Hazel says firmly.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchange looks, and Mr. Weasley gestures for his wife to go first. Mrs. Weasley looks around the room uncertainly. When no one protests to her going next, she nods and walks out of the sitting room, heading towards Fred and George's former bedroom. She returns after twenty minutes, tears of joy and relief in her eyes, and Mr. Weasley goes next.

The Weasleys leave one by one to see Fred, coming back around around twenty minutes each time, before the next one leaves. Percy is the last of the Weasleys to go. Before he does, he looks over uncertainly at Hazel, as though unsure he should be going before she does.

"Percy," Hazel begins firmly, intending to stop the discussion before it could start, "go."

Percy hesitates for a moment longer, before nodding, pushing up his horn-rimmed glasses, and moving out of the room. He returns fifteen minutes later, clearly relieved at how the conversation had gone. Hazel looks over at Harry, Hermione, and Fleur to see if any of them want to go first, but they all flatly refuse to see Fred before she does, so soon she's leaving the sitting room and walking up the stairs, her heart rate increasing with every step she takes. When she reaches Fred and George's bedroom door, she hesitates for a moment, bracing herself, then knocks.

"Come in."

Again, she pauses for a moment, before walking inside. Fred is sitting on the edge of his bed (George must have told him which one was his), watching her as she walks in. There's a chair opposite him, clearly where she's supposed to sit. Trying to suppress a flood of memories, she sits down awkwardly on the empty chair, wondering if he feels strange doing this, like a thing on display to be gawked at. He is definitely still Fred. It's Fred's mouth and Fred's hair and Fred's eyes and Fred's nose and Fred's freckles and Fred's body. But there's something about it that's very different, and it's not long until she pinpoints that it's his demeanour. Fred has an easy confidence to him, like he knew exactly who he was and knew that that was more than satisfactory. This Fred isn't like that. She can't blame him.

Fred would see her and his eyes would light up, a smile would cross his face, he'd always react to her in some way, usually positive. This Fred just watches her like he's wary she'l try to attack him. She can't blame him. She resists the urge to kiss him, to wrap her arms around his neck and never let go. She just looks back at him, meeting his gaze as steadily as she can.

"What's your name?" he asks, and he speaks with Fred's voice.

 _This is Fred,_ she reminds herself over and over again.  _This is Fred, this is Fred, this is Fred. He hasn't left you._

"Hazel - Hazel Knight," she replies, her voice catching in her throat a little.

He's looking at her with watchful, suspicious eyes. She tries to act like it's not burning her. She can't blame him.

"You," he says thoughtfully. "You are important to me."

She looks at him, surprised by this, but her heart lifts, just slightly, for the first time in months.  _"You_ are _important to me."_ Not were.

"How do you know?" she asks tentatively. "I mean, if you don't - " 

"I don't remember you at all," he says bluntly, and she scolds herself for the feeling of a blunt knife stabbing her over and over. What had she expected? "I don't remember anyone. But I get feelings about people. Like I can tell when people are really, really important to me. You are. My twin is. Stuff like that. I can kind of sense how they're important to me, but I don't know why. I have no idea what happened between us that made you important to me. I just know you are."

He sounds tired. Like he's explained this too many times.

There's a silence. She considers these words. She's trying very hard not to fall apart.

Finally, she says, "You said you can sense how they're important to you. How do you sense I'm important to you?" Hazel pauses, then says, "If you don't want to answer, it's fine - "

"I'm in love with you," he blurts out, then cringes, rubbing his temple. "Or - at least - I was before the explosion. I don't know if I'm supposed to be."

Hazel doesn't say anything, just staring at him. Her heart is going to explode in her chest any moment now, it's bound to, how else is she going to be able to handle this?

"Did you love me, too?" he asks. It's such a bold question that it couldn't have come from anyone but Fred, but he doesn't ask it the way one would expect. He says it like he's confused and curious, like it's the one part of the equation he can't figure out. "I can't remember how people felt about me, just how I felt about them. So, did you?"

"I might've," she replies, and it's a strain to say each word. Then, deciding it's best to be honest, "I did."

"Did or do?" Fred asks, as naturally bold as ever.

"Do," she says after a pause. "I do."

He nods once. He doesn't say it back, but she can't have expected him to. "That's why my twin - George - that's what he said, too."

"You - you talked about me?" she asks uncertainly.

"I asked about you," he shrugs. "I got this - this feeling in my chest when I looked at you, so I asked and he said that we - that we - er - " he clears his throat awkwardly - "that we dated."

Again, she says nothing.

"Did we?" he asks again, and slowly, she nods. "When? How? Why?" Fred looks slightly embarrassed, if the way the tips of his ears go red say anything. "Sorry. I just want to know everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," she says through the lump in her throat. "We started four years ago. How - well, there was a lot of confusion and snogging and arguments and misunderstandings and more arguments and then a little more snogging, and then we finally got it together. As for why... well, we liked each other well enough, I suppose."

Fred smiles a little, though the tips of his ears are still red. "So we kissed a lot, did we?"

Hazel smiles at the way he asks it, unable to help herself. "A fair bit, yeah."

He nods. "Okay. Was I good at it?"

Hazel looks up at him, surprised. She realises after a split second that he's joking, and grins from ear to ear. This is Fred, he's still here, he's still himself.

"Well," Hazel says, in a would-be offhand way, "you were nothing to write home about."

Fred lets out a laugh, a long, loud, genuine one. Hazel instantly relaxes more, laughing along with him.

"But you still kissed me," he retorts, "so what does that say about you?"

Hazel considers this, before saying thoughtfully, "Touche."

He grins wider. There's a silence for a while. Then, he looks at her and says, "I want to know you. I want - I want us to - I don't know - but I want to be close to you."

Her heart lifts at those words, but she forces herself to stay calm, nodding and saying, "If you're sure you want to."

"I am," Fred says confidently. "I do."

"Alright, then, it's settled," Hazel says, smiling at him, a gesture he returns.

There's another silence, where Fred seems to struggle with himself, before he reaches out a hand towards her. She looks from it to his face for a moment, before realising what he means to do. She moves to sit next to him on the bed and takes his hand in hers, interlocking their fingers gently and rubbing her thumb along the back of his hand. He lets out a breath, closing her eyes and relaxing slightly. They stay there for a moment, not speaking, not moving, not doing anything. Hazel's trying not to cry at this, at this intimacy that she thought she would never have with him again, at the physical proof that he was really  _here_ , really alive and with her again. Her thumb brushes what feels like a scar that she knows hadn't always been there, and remembers what the Healers at St. Mungo's said about him having some bad scarring along his body.

 _That's alright,_ Hazel thinks.  _I have them, too._

After around five minutes, Fred finally says quietly, "I should probably - uh - see the others, now."

"Right," she says, fighting off disappointment. "I'll go get them."

She makes to move away and release his hand, but Fred tightens his grip on hers before she can. She looks over at him, surprised, raising her eyebrows. He looks embarrassed at his actions, looking sheepish as the tips of his ears go red again, but he doesn't let go yet.

"Will I see you around soon?" Fred says. "I just mean... I can see you a lot, right?"

He looks so earnest as he says it that her heart melts a little bit.

"Yeah," she says, "yeah, of course. Whenever you want."

He smiles at her, looking relieved, and only lets go of her hand then. She smiles back at her, before walking out of the room. Her heart feels lighter than it has in months, and she has to wipe a tear of joy that falls down her face as she walks back to the sitting room to join the other Weasleys.

 

***

 

A lot happens over the course of a month. Hazel finds a flat of her own in London and moves in there, and Fred moves into the lat on top of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He's expressed great interest in the joke shop, and says he'd like to get to work on it right away. The Weasleys are all a little uneasy at the idea, suggesting that Fred should rest first. It's clear to Hazel, though, that what Fred wants is to keep busy, to try and move forward the best that he can. Hazel vouches for him, saying she sees no reason he can't get started whenever he's up for it, and that she, George, and Ron can all look after him while he's at the shop. This seems to convince the Weasleys, and Fred shoots her a grateful look, which she returns with a nod.

Though he's been discharged from St. Mungo's, he still has to visit every other day for sessions meant to try and restore his memories. It's a slow-going process, the Healers explain patiently during Fred's follow-up appointment, and there's no guarantee that he'll ever regain all of his memories. Fred, clearly trying very hard to act like this doesn't bother him, insists that it's worth a shot, and so they set to work, anyway. After every session, Fred returns looking slightly bothered by something, and needs to be alone for an hour before he can talk to anyone again. Everyone lets him take his time.

He's also seemed to have devised a plan so that he has private time to talk to everyone. Fred and George live together, so they have plenty of time in the mornings and evenings. Ron stays over at their flat every Thursday, so he and Fred can talk then. Fred visits the Burrow and helps Mrs. Weasley with dinner, and that's when they talk, and so on and so forth. Whenever Hazel's helping out at the joke shop, she and Fred take their breaks at the same time, and that's their time. She lets him initiate any kind of intimacy, doesn't touch him unless he initiates, despite her default being to hug him and hold him and kiss him. Mostly, they both ask and answer a lot of questions. He asks questions about anything he can think of about her and their relationship, and Hazel answers them all without any restriction. If there's anything Fred needs, she knows it's complete honesty. He's surprised by all the questions she has for him in return.

"I thought you knew everything about me," he says one day three months into this arrangement, frowning slightly. "Why do you have so many questions, then?"

"You - you're not going to be the same Fred I knew before everything happened," Hazel explains. "In some ways, you're going to be very different. It'd be stupid for me to expect you to be the same. I want to know you, too."

"But you said you love me," Fred says, still looking confused.

"I did say that," she nods. "Because I do."

"But how can you love me still if I'm not the same Fred from before?" he says. "I'm different now. How can you love that version of me if you don't know me yet?"

She thinks about that for a moment, before answering the question, picking her word very carefully, "Because I still see the version of you that I know in the things you say, the things you do, in the way that you just are. You're still  _you_. But there are differences. You changed. And I changed, too. And this changed version of me loves every version of you, including this one."

Fred is silent for a long time, taking this in. Then, he says, "I must have done something. I must have done something really amazing to deserve someone like you."

And before Hazel can think of something to say to that, George is yelling from the shop downstairs that their break is over and that they'll never make it to their re-opening day in two weeks if they keep slacking like this.

It's Fred who helps her realise what it is she really wants to do. Another day, while on their break, Fred is asking about her job as an Auror. When she told her about her disillusionment with the job, he frowns.

"Well, why don't you like it?" he asks. "You seem like the type to love that kind of thing."

"I thought so, too," she says. "But it feels like it's all this pointless work every day and I'm not doing anything to really help anyone. And even when we do stuff on the field, it feels like, at the end of the day, there are so many people who still aren't safe."

"Like who?" he asks.

"Like - like - look, I told you about my aunt and uncle, right?" she says, and he nods. "And Harry was in the same situation. Nobody - no government officials, or anything - really did anything to help us. Who knows how many young wizards are in positions like this? Hell, even Muggles have laws and systems in place to try and help kids in places like that, even if they don't always work very well. And no one's ever protecting them, and - oh.  _Oh._ "

And it's just like that that Hazel realises what she was meant to do. She leaps to her feet, and looks over at Fred, saying, "Oh, that's it! That's it! That's always been it! Fred, you're a genius!"

She goes to kiss him, but she remembers not to; still, she'd already taken the step forward, and she needs some way to play it off, so she holds out a hand hesitantly as though to shake a hand. Fred looks at her in confusion, before reaching out and shaking her hand awkwardly, saying, "Why? What's going on?"

"I'll explain later - I have to go - I'll be back when I can - "

And, too excited to stay a moment longer, she Disapparates, appearing back at her flat, and immediately sets to work on her idea; a sector of the Ministry within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, working particularly close with the Auror office, dedicated to helping magical beings in bad situations - wizards, house-elves, werewolves, Squibs,  _anyone._ She spends the whole day working on it, barely stopping to eat and sleep, and then brings forth the idea too Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose position as Minister has been decided as a more permanent one. She explains her plans to him as he listens patiently, and afterwards, waits for his response.

He's silent for a long time, before finally saying, "One month. You're to explain a breakdown of how this sector would work in front of Ministry officials, the Wizengamot, and any other magical beings that wish to attend. If you can successfully plead your case and the Ministry officials and the Wizengamot agree to your idea, then we'll set to work right away. But only then. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she says breathlessly, beaming. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me for anything yet," Kingsley advises, and Hazel nods, beginning to pack up and exit the office, but Kingsley calls her back before she can. "Oh, and Knight? Keep up the good work."

She grins widely at him, before exiting the office.

 

From that day forth, she works tirelessly any spare minute she has (which isn't a lot. She's still working as an Auror, since she wont quite until she knows that her idea will take off, and working towards the re-opening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had taken a lot of time and effort, but the immediate success had made it worth it) on preparing her speech in front of the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and any other magical being who might show up - and it seems like it might be a lot. News of this event somehow spread fast, and there seems to be a lot of interest. She tries not to think about the amount of people she'll be speaking in front of too much, and instead tries to focus on making sure her speech is the best it can be. Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys, upon hearing this idea, support her fully and help her wherever they can, lessening the pressure. Soon, in almost no time at all, it's time.

She make the speech in the Atrium of the Ministry, on a raised platform. Kingsley is first to speak, introducing her to the crowd, though at this point, everyone knows her. She, Ron, and Hermione like to joke with Harry that at this point, they're almost as famous as he is. She stands beside them, looking around and feeling stunned at how full the wide, spacious atrium is. She can see Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, and Fleur all standing at the very front, grinning at her, pulling funny faces to make her smile, giving her a thumbs-up. Hagrid is standing to the side with them, as well, positively beaming with pride. There are Hogwarts teachers scattered here and there, as well as Jace, Devon, Grover, Layla, and Marina all standing near the front, grinning at her. She can see the Ministry officials and the Wizengamot, all in their differently coloured robes, but she can also see regular wizards watching with interest. And she can see house-elves, goblins, even centaurs coming out from their homes to watch, and she's sure there are werewolves, vampires, and Squibs among them, as well, waiting for this speech.

"... and so, without further ado, I welcome Hazel Knight to speak on his brave, bold plan," Kingsley says, finishing up and stepping away, gesturing for her to stand in the centre of the platform.

She steps forward to polite applause, holding up a hand with a smile and waiting until they're finished. Once they are, she takes another second, gathering her courage. She looks around at the crowd, at some of the magical beings looking at her with what can only be described as hope. She cannot let them down. She takes a deep breath, and begins to speak.

"When I was a baby, Lord Voldemort killed my parents, and so I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle," she begins. "They were Muggles who didn't really like magic. Or me. For the seventeen years that I was legally under their care, they would beat me - and I still have the scars - purposely withhold food and water for me for days and even weeks at a time, lock me up in the house or even my room and only met me leave for two bathroom breaks, and even more things I won't tell you about today. Despite all of this, I think I'm going to be okay, but for a long, long time, I wasn't. And the only people who ever did anything at all to try and help me were friends of mine. Never any government officials here, never anyone with any sort of power or influence. And I know people in similar situations," she glances over at Harry, who nods once at her. "As magical beings, many of us like to think ourselves better, more advanced than Muggles. But even Muggles have systems in place to help children in these situations, and we don't. And I don't just mean with children in abusive homes! I mean abuse in relationships, I mean the terrible conditions we put house-elves, goblins, werewolves, vampires, giants in; I mean the prejudice that  _still_ exists against Muggle-borns and squibs. We have nothing, nothing at all, to help them!"

Her words are punctuated with applause and whistles from certain members of the audience. Gaining more courage, she continues.

"I've never understood how this isn't considered a serious breach of basic rights by the Ministry, and I still don't," she continues. "But now I'm ready to try and stop it.

"Lord Voldemort is dead, and with each day, his followers and supporters are being rounded up and put to justice," she says, just as she sees Draco Malfoy standing in the back, watching her (she had testified for his family when they were put on trial, said they deserved punishment, just no Azkaban, one of the only reasons they managed to escape such punishment, and now he seems to think he owes her). "But can any of us really say that we're truly in an era of prosperity now?"

She waits, looking around at the crowd, and none of them seem to be able to say yes. There are shaking heads and even a few murmurs of "No."

"I can't say it, either, and it's because of these prejudices, this indifferent to the suffering of our fellow magical beings still exists. We will never enter that era of prosperity if we can't solve that problem first. We can round up and put all the Dark wizards to justice, and that's important, but creating a better world isn't just Hexing the bad guys and chucking them in Azkaban. It's about protecting and defending the people who can't do it themselves from any bad guys they might encounter, from situations they can't protect themselves from.

"Now, some of you might say that I'm young, too inexperienced to handle a leadership position like this," she goes on, and sees a couple Ministry officials and Wizengamot members nod impatiently. "To which I saw... yes, I am young. And yes, I've never been head of any department here, nor have I been working here for that long. But in my time, I've seen how cruel the world can be, both wizard and Muggle alike. I've seen injustice in all its varying forms, and I've seen people close their eyes and turn their backs and pretend it's not there, I've seen people insist it's easier or even somehow better to let it happen than try to fight against it, I've seen people act as though apathy is better than effort. And I've seen it allow too much suffering to occur all over.

"And so I'll conclude by saying this. For those of you who are ready to create a better, safer world for everyone," she says, looking around and realising she has the crowd hanging onto her last word, "for house-elves meant to bow and serve masters who continually disrespect and mistreat them," she can see Kreacher staring at her in awe, and Hermione, faithful founder of S.P.E.W., is beaming at her, "for werewolves seen as dangerous and unhinged, forced into poverty because of others' ignorance, and vampires in similar situations," she sees people in shabby robes looking relieved, "for giants who we allow to continue their fatal conflict without intervention, who we see as only cruel, overly aggressive, crude brutes," she says, and Hagrid is somehow smiling even wider at her, "for goblins we continue to mistreat and deceive," she can see Griphook and Grintlog watching with interest at her words, "for centaurs who have been disrespected for far too long," and a few of the centaurs let out approving noises, "and for those of us who feel or who have felt like they'll never escape the feeling of powerlessness that they felt far too often in their lives... the Association for Magical Protection and Progress is ready to get started whenever you are. Thank you."

She takes a step back as she finishes her speech, and the atrium is filled with applause and cheers. She breathes out a sigh of relief at how well the speech had gone. She shoots Kingsley a furtive look, who gives her a subtle nod, making her smile. Kingsley steps forward, holding out a hand, but even that isn't enough to make the noise die down for another minute or so, until the atrium is finally silent.

"Thank you for your words, Miss Knight," Kingsley says. "And now, may the Ministry officials and members of the Wizengamot present here today please step forward."

The Ministry officials and Wizengamot step forward, and others step back to the sides of the atrium, so that they're the centre of the crowd.

"Those against the creation of this Association for Magical Protection and Progress, please raise your hand."

Hands raise in the air - a lot of them. Before Hazel can feel to disheartened, she realises more hands are down than there are up.

"Now," Kingsley says, when the hands go down, "those in favour of the creation of this Association, raise your hands."

More hands this time. Way more. She smiles, as Kingsley says, "A clear majority. Let it be known, then, that the Association for Magical Protection and Progress will be created immediately.

The atrium breaks into cheers and applause again, and Kingsley walks forward to shake her hand, smiling at her.

"Well done, Hazel," he says quietly, and she beams at him. Cameras flash as they shake hands, and she knows they'll be in the newspaper and magazines everywhere, but she can't bring herself to care at all. There are more important things in mind.

That night, there's a celebration at the Burrow in honour of her success. Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, Hagrid, and Fleur are all there. Even Hogwarts teachers, McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout and Slughorn stop by to congratulate her, as do Neville, Luna, Jace, Devon, Marina, Layla, and Grover. Fred kisses her cheek and tells her she did amazing. It's a day she always remembers fondly.

 

***

 

Time, entire months, seem to fly by. Hazel quits her job as an Auror to dedicate her time to the Association. She also stops working at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but Ron, who despite spending two years revolutionising the Auror office, realises that working there satisfies him more than any Ministry job, starts working there full time, making up for her departure. She works there whenever she has free time, but she rarely does.

Work on the Association goes brilliantly. She works with the Heads of the Auror office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, along with Kingsley. In over a year, the Association for Magical Protection and Progress is established, with floods of wizards, Squibs, werewolves, vampires, and even a few centaurs, elves, and goblins hastening to work with the office in some way. And Hazel, in charge of it all, overseeing it all, making her the youngest head of any office in Ministry history, at twenty-one.

Since they can't have time to talk during their shared breaks anymore, Fred visits her at her flat whenever they're both free. He's even slept there for a night a few times. They've become close over time, their bond seeming to strengthen with each day. Still, their bond is one that's hard to define. Fred knows she loves him, and Hazel knows she's important to him, but that's it. She doesn't press it, though. she wants to give him more time to adjust. She does what he's comfortable with and only that. He  _has_ become more comfortable with her, though; he touches her more often, has even kissed he cheek and hugged her a few times.

All in all, she has to admit Fred is adjusting rather well to all of this. He seems to be more withdrawn lately, however. She doesn't ask too many questions beyond asking if he feels okay. He always answers yes, but she can't shake the feeling that there's more to it than what he's saying.

It's not until one Tuesday night at the Burrow that the truth comes out. Hazel, Harry, Hermione, Fleur, and the Weasleys are all having dinner together. They have to eat outside to make room for the lot of them, but the food is good and everyone has let go of their worries long enough to feel light and happy. Fred talks surprisingly little, though. He's been becoming more comfortable, more able to talk loudly and joke around the way he used to, but on this night he's silent. He doesn't even talk to join in on teasing Ron and Hermione,  who have announced they're moving in together ("It's tradition, big brother," says Ginny with a grin, having experienced all sorts of teasing when she and Harry moved in together).

He doesn't speak until the sun is down and they've all migrated to the sitting room. All conversations dying down and the room temporarily quiet, he finally says something.

"I've been getting some of my memories back," he says finally.

Somehow, the room goes even more quiet than before.

"Wh-what?" George says, stunned.

"I've been getting some of my memories back," Fred says again. "The sessions at St. Mungo's. They've been starting to work for the past few months."

"What?" says Mr. Weasley.

"Well, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Weasley is saying.

"Yeah, that's amazing, Fred!" Ron says.

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Mrs. Weasley says. "This is just terrific, why - ?"

"Because it's not!" Fred bursts out, leaping to his feet. "It's not amazing, it's not terrific, it's not anything good! I don't even know if I can trust my own memories! The Healers said there's a chance my memories could be fabricated in my mind! That it might not even be real! Do none of you realise how fucking awful this has been? You lot have this whole - this whole history with me, you know all these things about me, and - and I don't remember any of it! I've had this whole life - twenty fucking years - and I  _barely_ remember anything! And what I do remember might not even be real! Do any of you have any fucking idea - at all - about how - about how - "

But he seems to lose sight of what he's saying, collapses back into his chair, burying his head in his hands. It takes everyone a second to realise that he's crying. George reaches for him gently, but Fred pulls away from him, shaking his head. Hazel doesn't hesitate. She walks forward until she's in front of him and extends her hand.

"Fred," she says gently. At first, he doesn't react again, so she says again, louder, "Fred."

This time he removes his head from his hands to look up at her. He looks from her hand to her face with uncertainty.

"Come with me," she says softly. "We'll go to mine for a bit, you can calm down there."

Fred hesitates for a moment, before taking her hand, allowing her to lead him away, out of the sitting room, out of the Burrow. She tightens her grip on his hand as she twists on the spot, Apparating into the sitting room of her flat. They don't talk much once they're there. She makes them both tea and they drink together in silence. Hazel lets Fred cry until he's cried out and he's only exhausted. He doesn't much feel like going back to the Burrow or his flat with George, so Hazel offers to let him stay here, and he accepts immediately, looking grateful. He's stayed here often enough to have his own toothbrush and extra clothes, so he doesn't have much to worry about in terms of getting ready for bed.

They're both going their separate ways to sleep, her to her bedroom, Fred to the spare bedroom, when Fred stops suddenly, turning to face her.

"What?" she says.

He hesitates for a moment, seeming to struggle with himself, before finally says, "Is it... would it be alright... if I slept with you? Just - just sleeping. I'd fall asleep easier if - "

"Yes," Hazel says. "Yeah, come here."

She leads him into her bedroom, and they both climb into her bed. Hazel stays a safe distance away from him, but Fred reaches out to her, and before long, they're tangled together, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

"You don't have to treat me like I'm made of glass, you know," Fred murmurs. "I appreciate you being patient, but I can handle you touching me."

She looks up at him, smiling sheepishly. "Got it. I'm just... I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"You won't," he murmurs. "I trust you."

Her heart lifts at that. "Okay. I trust you, too. And in that case... if you're not sure what you're seeing is real, you can ask me," she adds. "Or any one of us - I'm sure someone can help you. Just tell me what you saw and I'll tell you if it's real."

Fred's stunned. "Really?"

"Yeah," Hazel responds, "of course."

"Okay," he says. "Most of my memories that I have right now involve you anyway. It's like they're stronger with you. Here's one: it must've been when we were really young - you looked about eleven, and me and George were about thirteen - and we threw you into the lake at Hogwarts, but then you pretended like you couldn't swim and that you were drowning, so then we had to jump in to save you, and you had a really good laugh about it after."

"Real," she says with a grin. "It's years and that's still funny to me."

"I'm glad you found it funny; I remember being worried sick," he says, rolling his eyes but grinning at her. "Next one: we went to some formal dance together. We almost got in trouble with that one teacher Harry told me about - Snape - but we hid in some broom cupboard and we kissed there."

"Real," she confirms. "The dance was the Yule Ball. That was fun."

"Which bit?" Fred asks curiously. "Because I already know you think that about the snogging - "

"Don't get cheeky with me," Hazel cuts across him, and Fred starts shaking with silent fits of laughter.

Still laughing, Fred continues, "Next one: I visited you while you were in the hospital at some point and slept in your bed overnight. I don't know how we didn't get caught."

"Real," Hazel says. "It was after a Quidditch match. The Hufflepuff team had it out for me and their captain... well, he was a dick, you do the math."

"I see," Fred says. "Did I beat him up? I hope I beat him up."

"Nah," Hazel says, though she's laughing. "You let me take care of that."

Fred grins. "I think I like that better."

And so they continue, Fred listing restored memories that involved her and Hazel confirming whether or not they were real, until they're both drifting off to sleep, still in each other's arms.

The next morning, when they wake up, they're both confronted with the fact that waking up next to each other feels  _right_ , feels more familiar than it really should. Hazel makes breakfast, since it's her speciality, making pancakes for the two of them.

"You think you're ready to go back?" Hazel asks when they're finished eating and they're sitting in her cosy sitting room, side by side on the sofa.

"You're really eager to kick me out," Fred comments.

Hazel shoots him a look. "Don't be a dick. I want to know."

Fred shrugs. "Yeah, I suppose so. Better sooner than later, especially since I expect they're all worried about me."

"Yeah, they probably are," Hazel agrees. "But not  _too_ worried. Last night, when you were in the bathroom, I send a Patronus to the Burrow saying you were alright and staying with me for the night. I expect that might have helped."

"You did?" he asks. She nods and his whole body seems to relax more. "Thank you, Hazel. Seriously, I just wish I can remember what I was supposed to have done before to deserve you - "

"It's really nothing," she says sheepishly.

"No, it's something," Fred insists, moving closer to her on the sofa. "Something big. You've mad everything so much better for me. I don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for you. Thank you."

The light of the sun is shining down on him through the curtains, illuminating his body and making him look so angelic Hazel's breath catches in her throat. He's sitting so close to her that his body is brushing hers, and at some point while he was talking he had taken her hand in his warm ones, and it makes everything in her feel warm, and it all feels so overwhelming but in a dizzyingly pleasant way, and she doesn't think about anything else when she takes his face in her hands and kisses him. He's the way she remembers him, for the most part. He's still so warm, and his hair feels the same underneath her fingers, but it's longer than it usually is, he hasn't cut it in a while (she doesn't mind, though, she sort of likes it when he grows his hair out), and he still smells like dark berries and mint and a faint hint of sweets, and - 

She realises what she's done and pulls away immediately, horrified with herself. Fred had said he didn't need to be treated like broken glass; that didn't mean she needed to cross a line like that. And he had said he trusted her, too... no doubt she had completely ruined that.

"Fred," she says. "Fred, I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking - I  _wasn't_ thinking - I shouldn't have - "

Fred cuts her off by closing the space between them and kissing her. She's stunned for a moment, completely still, before wrapping her arms around him and kissing him back, tangling her hands in his hair and sighing into his mouth. His hands go to her waist, then under her shirt, tracing shapes on her skin. But soon, Fred's all but ripping himself away from her like he'd been burned, even getting up and taking a few steps away from her for good measure.

"I shouldn't," Fred says, shaking his head repeatedly. "I shouldn't - I shouldn't - "

"Shouldn't what?" Hazel says, not understanding at all.

"Shouldn't do this to you!" Fred says. "You shouldn't love me. God, it's all I can think about. I love you, of course I do, I always have... even when I could barely remember you, I just knew. And then all these memories we've made since I've woken up, and it's just... it feels like it's in my D.N.A. to love you, but I don't... I don't deserve you, Hazel. This person - this  _person_ I've become... I'm not good enough for you. My mind is a mess and I'm scarred everywhere and - you deserve better. It makes no fucking sense for you to love me."

As though to prove his point, he pulls up his shirt to show the scarring all along his freckled chest and his stomach. Hazel, however, shakes her head and gets to her feet, pulling up her shirt and showing him the scars on her chest and her back that Bellatrix Lestrange gave her.

"You think I'm not scarred, too?" Hazel says, once she turns to face him again and sees that his face has softened considerably. "I can't pretend that I know what you're going through, but you're not the only one who didn't come out unscathed. And you are...  _more_ than good enough, okay? You are smart, and funny, and loving, and gentle, and you are so, so  _good_ and more than enough. I love you, and I know what I'm getting into and I always have. And I still love you, and I'll always love you. I want to be with you, Fred. I want you, and that means the scars and everything else. It's just... if you feel the same way."

"Of course I do, Hazel," Fred says, walking towards her. "Of course I do."

And he kisses her again, taking her face in his hands. They kiss until Hazel's head is spinning and kiss even more, until the sun is higher in the sky and shines on them and Hazel's head is filled with nothing but him.

 

Everyone is relieved that Fred is okay, and full of congratulations and teasing remarks when they find that he and Hazel are together again. They're both too happy to mind the teasing. They're not perfect, really, by any means, they're still a little broken, but they are sort of beautiful, in their own way - at the very least, they always feel more than enough.

Hazel finally does what she'd been avoiding doing for so long; she visits Remus' grave. She had been so afraid of facing this, facing the loss of this man who had been a father and so much more to her, but she knows she must to move on fully. She'd been healing so much for the years, but she can't truly become better until she faces this. Fred goes with her. He doesn't say or do anything, just stands a few steps away, and Hazel knows he's there if she needs him. It's autumn, the leaves falling, when she goes to see him, kneeling in front of the grave and speaking to him as if he might hear. She talks about everything, from how her life has been, to how much she loves him and always will. When she's finished, Hazel stands, conjures a wreath of flowers before his grave. She does the same to Tonks' grave, who she promises to see soon. Everyone in this graveyard, where all those who died in the battle of Hogwarts (unless their families wished they were buried elsewhere), would be honoured by her someday. She'd make sure none of them went forgotten.

"And you won't have to do it alone," Fred had told her when she had declared it to him.

After she's on her feet again, in front of Remus' grave, she remains standing for a while, silent, still, tears rolling down her face. It's Fred who gets her to move again, taking her hand gently and guiding her out of the graveyard. She lets him lead her away.

 

***

 

When it gets to the point where Fred is staying at her flat more than at his own, they move in together. His memories are completely restored by this point, with help from those around him to confirm whether they're real or not. It's on her birthday nearly a year after that he proposes. His present to her is a small, near brown leather book, and within it he's written what seems to be a complete history of their lives together. She flips through it, looking stunned, but then notes that there are blank pages at the end.

"Well, the story isn't done yet - or I like to think it's not, anyway," he explains. "Actually, there's something you missed. Go to the last page with words on it."

She flicks through the pages until she finds it, and her heart leaps, her hand going to her mouth. Taped to the page is an ornate gold ring that resembled two branches intertwining with one another, topped with a surprisingly large diamond. Under the ring are the words:  _Continue the story?_

She looks over at Fred, shocked, who's already kneeling before her on one knee.

"Hazel, I - I don't know what there is to say that you don't already know," he begins, taking her hand in his, "but I love you. And I always have. And I always will. And it's - it's you. It's always been you. I've been close to death for a while - long enough to say that me and death are pretty good mates - and that sort of thing is a really good reminder that life doesn't last very long. And however much time I've got, I want to spend the rest of it with you. I want all of it - the good bits and the ugly bits and the cheesy bits, and everything in between. So, will you please marry me?"

For a moment, Hazel's too stunned to speak; but then she's pulling Fred to his feet and leaping into his arms, kissing him full on the mouth. Laughing into her mouth, he holds her up easily, kissing her back. When they pull away, he says, grinning widely, "Can I take that as a yes?"

"Yes, yes, yes it's a yes," she says, and kisses him again.

They're both so excited by the engagement that they forgot how hellish planning a wedding can be, though they had already been there for the planning of Bill and Fleur's wedding, Harry and Ginny's wedding, Ron and Hermione's, Percy and Audrey's, and even Jace and Devon's. Somehow, Mrs. Weasley still manages to put all of herself into the process. It's a rather admirable trait, Hazel thinks, except being in the middle of it is rather overwhelming.

"We should just elope," Fred says suddenly one day, while Hazel is reviewing the list of people to invite while they're in bed one evening.

"Fred."

"What? I'm being serious."

" _Fred._ "

"I want you to give me three good reason right now as to why we shouldn't elope."

"First of all, your mother would kill us both," Hazel says, putting the papers down and looking over at him more squarely, "second of all, your mother would kill us both, and third of all, your mother would kill us both!"

Fred pauses for a moment, thinking this over, before conceding, "Fair enough. I suppose when we get married, you'll be an official Weasley, so she'll be more comfortable with killing you."

"I can already feel the love," she says lightly, and Fred laughs.

"I just want us to be married," Fred says simply. "If that means invoking my mum's wrath, I'm willing to risk it."

"You say that because you haven't invoked the wrath yet," Hazel says vaguely. "You might be singing to a different tune when you actually have."

"True," he says thoughtfully, "but at the same time - it's much easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."

"We're not eloping, Fred."

"But - "

"No."

"Fine."

Despite all the complaints, the wedding is everything both of them had wanted it to be. They marry outside, at the grassy fields outside the Burrow, the same place Fred told her he loved her for the first time, they same place they had made countless memories. The wedding takes place at night, the stars out and the moon shining brightly upon them. Hazel wears a dress of silver, long and flowing, laced with gold, with thin straps and a veil to match. Her hair is left down, but with small braids woven elegantly in her hair. Fred is wearing black dress robes, but with a golden tie to match her dress. The entire Weasley clan is there, which makes for an entertaining affair, if slightly messy. Hermione is Hazel's maid of honour. Ginny and Fleur are both bridesmaids. She makes Harry a bridesmaid, too. He wears the title with pride. Mr. Weasley is the one who walks her down the aisle, having practically swelled with pride and joy when Hazel had asked if he'd do it. George is Fred's best man, as Fred was for George's wedding. Angelina, sporting an engagement ring of her own, teases him constantly from where she sits. Bill and Fleur's young daughter, Victoire Weasley, is the flower girl; Teddy Lupin gives her an encouraging look as she goes, giving her more confidence. Hagrid is there, crying before the ceremony can even start, and Jace, Devon, Layla, Marina, and Grover are all there, beaming at her and giving her a thumbs-up from their seats.

When the tufty-haired wizard declares them bonded for life, Fred picks her up right where she stands and kisses her full on the mouth, pulling her tightly against him. Laughing into his mouth, her hair and the veil covering their faces from all watching, she kisses him back, until the applause and the cheers from the audience are too much for them to ignore.

It's near impossible to separate Hazel and Fred that night, dancing together for hours and even managing to sneak away from their own wedding for an hour, until they get caught and George brings them back, spending the rest of the night teasing them for it. They exchange I love you's easier than anything, never once wasting an opportunity to say it to each other, but it still never seems to lose meaning; if anything, it means more every time.

 

She gets pregnant six months later (Hazel tells Fred, who's so delighted that she picks her up and spins her around until they're both dizzy and collapse on the sofa, laughing and kissing over and over), and another nine months later she gives birth to twins, Delilah Ginevra and Frank Remus Weasley.

"I always knew they'd be twins," Fred likes to say matter-of-factly. "It's a Weasley thing. We just  _have_ twins; it's just how it goes."

Delilah and Frank both have the Weasley red hair, but their eyes both unmistakably belong to their mother. Delilah has Fred's freckles and nose, but otherwise is identical to her mother. Frank has her mother's eyes, mouth and ears, but otherwise looks exactly like his father. They're both the most beautiful children either Hazel or Fred have laid eyes on.

One day, Hazel and Fred are watching Delilah and Frank playing in the garden of their new home with faint smiles on their faces, Fred's arm around her shoulder and her head resting on his shoulder. There's a moment where they look away from the children, turned golden from the sunlight, and look at each other.

They don't need to speak. They understand each other perfectly. Their mere looks say the same thing.

_Let's have another one._

And so they do. Almost a year and a half later, Hazel gives birth to another daughter, Reyna Jasmine Weasley. She looks almost exactly like Hazel, except for the freckles everywhere and bright red hair that is unmistakably Fred's.

"So, none of them escaped the Weasley curse," Fred always says with a grin. "At least we know they'll be good-looking."

"Shut up," she always replies, nudging him, but she can't help but smile, too. It's an odd thought, that this man she's known since she was eleven and he thirteen, this man who she's seen grow up, this man who still says the most ridiculous things, is the man she's built this life with, and yet she does not regret a moment of it.

 

***

 

The first of September, nineteen years after the horrors of the Battle of Hogwarts, is a crisp autumn day, and Delilah and Frank's first day at Hogwarts. They're both excited but nervous, and Fred and Hazel jump on the opportunity to tell them about their experiences at Hogwarts as they make their way to King's Cross.

"... and it's tradition for you to send us back a toilet seat within your first week there," Fred is saying as they walk into the station, Fred pushing the trolley with their trunks in it, "you know, to let us know you're settling in nicely and everything."

"No, it's not," Hazel says pointedly, but with a smile, adds, "but we won't be entirely opposed to you doing it."

"Don't get caught, though," Fred advises. "Last thing we need is Professor Longbottom writing to us about this."

"What do they expect from us?" Delilah, the bolder of the twins, demands. "One of our parents runs a joke shop!"

"Probably a lot, since our other parent is a Ministry official," Frank, the quieter of the two, murmurs.

"Yeah, but everyone knows even Mum was never big on playing by the rules," Delilah insists. "Right, Mum?"

"Right," Hazel says with a smile. "But if anyone important asks, I don't endorse any of that."

Reyna is upset at being separated from her siblings to the point of being almost inconsolable. She has never been faced with separation from her siblings for so long, and she's been crying for weeks. She's also jealous that her siblings get to explore this new world of magic and excitement, new wands in their hands, while she still has to wait. The family has to stop for a few moments, Hazel and Fred kneeling in front of her to comfort her.

"It's only for a few more years, and then you get to go, too," Hazel points out, stroking her hair soothingly.

"Yeah," Fred says, "and while they're gone, we'll show you all the cook magic stuff that we never showed them."

"Hey!" Delilah and Frank protest in unison, and Hazel and Fred exchange grins.

" _All_ the cool magic stuff?" Reyna repeats slowly.

"All of it," Hazel and Fred say together, nodding.

This seems to be enough to console Reyna for a moment, and so the group keeps moving together.

"Mum, Dad, Uncle Ron said that we'll be disowned if we don't get Sorted into Gryffindor," Frank says, as they walk through the barrier between platforms nine and ten as casually as they can, careful not to draw any attention to them, entering Platform Nine and Three Quarters. "Is that true?"

"Frank, you'll do well in your life if you never listen to Uncle Ron about anything ever again," Fred says wisely.

"In other words, we won't disown you," Hazel says firmly.

"If anyone's getting disowned, it's Uncle Ron," Fred adds matter-of-factly.

"That doesn't sound good."

Ron has entered the platform, along with Hermione and their children, Rose and Hugo Weasley, the former of whom is starting school this year.

"Ronald," Hazel says sternly, "do  _not_ go around telling our children we'll disown them if they don't get into our old house."

Ron looks over at Frank, saying, "Oh, you didn't take that to heart, did you? Blimey..."

" _Ron!_ " Hermione protests, but Fred bursts out laughing.

"Like I said," Fred says through laughter, "he's getting disowned."

The group moves together through the platform, the bright red train at the ready beside them.

"Family history, everyone," Fred says brightly, perking up and grinning. "I met my darling wife right here. She had never been to Platform Nine and Three Quarters before, so when she went through the first time, she closed her eyes and ran through - but she just kept running until she ran right into the train. That's where I found her and gallantly helped her to her feet and lead her to a compartment and everything, I was a gentleman right away - "

"After you laughed at me for a good five minutes," Hazel adds, shaking her head.

"It was probably more like ten, if we're being honest," Fred replies, not the slightest bit ashamed. "You would've laughed, too, if you could've seen yourself."

Everyone laughs at that, and even Hazel has to let out a laugh, herself. The group moves together until they find Harry and Ginny, who are seeing off their children, James and Albus, while a miserable Lily bids them goodbye, as well. James is having a crisis at the discovery that Teddy Lupin is dating Victoire Weasley, though all Hazel can think is how surprising it is that this is surprising to him. Hazel spends as much time as she can with her godbrother, and he comes around on Mondays and Wednesdays. For the past few years now, Victoire has been a constant topic of conversation for him.

Nineteen years, Hazel remarks as she looks around at all the people staring at Harry, and Harry hasn't become any less famous. Ron is quick to assure everyone jokingly that they're all staring at him.

"I can see old Malfoy with his kid," Fred remarks. "That must be little Scorpius."

Ron looks over at Delilah, Frank, Rose, and Albus. "I expect you all to beat him in every test. That includes you, Rose - thank Merlin you inherited your mother's brains."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron!" Hermione says, equally amused and exasperated.

In the last moments before students are to board the train, Hazel and Fred pull Delilah and Frank aside.

"Look after each other, alright?" Hazel says.

"Get Peeves on your side," Fred says, "and if you can't get him on your side, just stay out of his way."

"Visit Hagrid whenever you can," Hazel continues. "He means well, and he's one of the greatest friends you can have at Hogwarts."

"Don't duel anyone until you know how," Fred says. "Once you've learned, we'll be rooting for you."

"And if you get into a duel before you can learn, remember there's no shame in good old Muggle fighting," Hazel adds, holding up two fists. "Not that we encourage duelling."

"Not at all," Fred says. "Cause some mischief when you feel the occasion calls for it, but know where to draw the line."

"The line should be very well-defined," Hazel adds matter-of-factly. "Study hard and stay focused."

"And don't let anyone wind you up," Fred finishes.

"Got it?"

"Got it," Delilah and Frank say at once.

Hazel and Fred pull each of their children into tight hugs, kissing their foreheads. Delilah and Frank then hug a crying Reyna, promising to send her a new toilet seat every week, which is enough to get her to stop crying and start laughing.

"Off you go, then," Fred says, patting Delilah and Frank on the shoulder, as students begin hopping onto the train and doors start closing.

Delilah and Frank smile at their parents, before hopping onto the train after Albus, Rose, and James. They all stay at the window, though, waving at them, even as the train begins to move. Delilah's and Frank's eyes stay locked on their parents, their faces now ablaze with excitement. Hazel and Fred keep smiling and waving, though this feels like a little bereavement to Hazel, watching her daughter and son glide away from them like this...

The last trace of steam from the train evaporates into the autumn air. The train rounds a corner. Hazel's hand is still raised in farewell.

"They'll be alright," Fred whispers to her, his hand now holding Reyna's comfortingly, his other arm going around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I know," Hazel whispers back, resting her head on his shoulder.

"And us, too," Fred adds. "We'll be alright, too, love."

Hazel smiles gently. "Yeah, I know."

Nineteen years ago, she would not have believed it; but now she can. Now she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to delay publishing the rest of this story, doing just a chapter a day, but I figured the date of the Battle of Hogwarts was a good place to end it.
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed reading this story as much as I did.


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